A Touch of Grey. Or Blonde. Shit. What Color Is This?

The important facts: I'm 26. I'm a brunette. I'm excessively, inordinately, obnoxiously preoccupied and paranoid about aging. Ok, you're ready to proceed.

Last winter, in the depths of a deep late December funk, I had my hairdresser add some lovely light brown highlights to my hair. Usually, I stay far away from dye of any sort, even in small doses - due to a heinously addictive personality and some really scarring choices in 9th grade - but there was just so much fucking brown everywhere, and it was so cold, and there had been no direct sunlight in like, a week, and I was just depressed as shit, man. I had to do something.

So I changed up my hair a little, and it actually worked, I think, for a few weeks. Or maybe it was the vacation to Florida. Either way, I stumbled out of my Seasonal Affective Disorder doldrums, and resumed my life with a 'do full of lighter pieces. In early spring, it started to look a little root-tastic, but since I can't even pledge allegiance to a brand of shampoo for the time it takes to use up one bottle, I didn't really feel like embarking on a lifetime commitment to hair-streaks. I let it grow. And then...well I don't know what really happened, but sometime in May I noticed that the shit all turned blonde. And the other day I discovered all these brand new blonde strands all over my head. They're just growing, totally independent of the highlights. The highlights like, infected my hair or some shit, and now it's like scattering dandelion fluff, the shit is everywhere. I can't explain this. And really, it wouldn't be a problem, except 1) I like my dark hair and 2) I CANNOT TELL IF THESE NEW PIECES ARE BLONDE OR GREY AND IT'S DRIVING ME FUCKING BANANAS.

Seriously. Every day I notice a new piece, and I summarily freak the fuck out, and examine it under seven different lighting conditions. Then I talk to myself in soothing tones for a while, explaining to my freaked out little soul that grey hairs are NOT the end of the world, that people fucking age, and that aging is natural, and that my age and the number of grey hairs on my head have nothing to do with my character and blahblah, fuck it, I believe that, but I'm really not listening to myself right now because I am DISTRACTED by this FUCKING HAIR, WHAT COLOR IS IT??? And then I pull it out. It's gross.

This just happened to me, three minutes ago. I was in the bathroom, cleaning a spot of yogurt off my dress (yogurt stains are THE MOST unladylike of stains, up there with vanilla, rice, and tapioca puddings, mayonnaise, and cream cheese. I don't know why I insist on eating these things at work, the place to which I most frequently wear black) and there it was - a new hair. I separated it from the others, I twisted it around...it was blonde. Pretty sure. But maybe grey. Shit. I don't know. So I pulled it out. And carried it with me back to my office, with the intention of showing to my colleagues and asking their opinion. I know! That's so fucking disgusting! It's completely, totally the sort of obscene request I routinely force upon my friends and family, but at work? So inappropriate. Jesus, I need a new job. I'm getting entirely too comfortable at this one.

Oh, and I threw the hair away. Once it's out of my head it's nearly impossible to tell what color it is. I wish I could somehow remember that before I pull those little bastards out.