Sign of the Times

It's been a hell of a week - tons of homework that has had me up until the wee hours of the morning and choice signs from the universe that I'm not the kid I used to be, despite the glue that I can't get off my hands from hours spent gluing school projects.

Two things happened to me last week that are particularly telling. One, being that after sucking it up and deciding to spend the money on highlighting my hair (it had been nine months of nothing) my stylist informed me that I have a gray hair. A GRAY HAIR. It's kind of a big deal when you're in your twenties and it's almost the last thing you expect to sneak up on you. Being broke, fine. Career dilemmas, sure. But a gray hair? Never saw it coming.

Then, to add insult to injury. I have somehow been selected for the mailing list of this catalogue:

That's right. I guess my purchase history has somehow led me to this place where I receive tall girl magazines for 40-year-olds. Long Tall Sally. Even the name is demeaning. Maybe if the catalogue was decent, I wouldn't be so non-plussed, but the the styling is terrible and although they claim to carry good brands, it sure doesn't look it. Nothing is marked as such in the pages, it's just frump after frump. It's not good.

And neither is the gray hair.