I dyed my hair again on Sunday, and my husband had occasion to speak to me sternly about the fact that he had found some spots of dye on the bathroom walls which needed clearing up (I had meant to do it but forgot since I have “the attention span of a goldfish” as he frequently remarks). This made me sulky, which led to the inevitable consequences.
Later, when we were lying in bed, he remarked that he didn't understand why I had to dye my hair anyway. “But don't you think it looks beautiful?” I asked him, since I always spend some time admiring myself in the mirror after I have dyed it. “Yes,” he said. “But I think it looks beautiful if you don't dye it too. Look at my hair” he went on. “I don't dye it, and what's wrong with it?” “Nothing,” I said, and forbore to add anything else, but “I know, you were going to add 'what's left of it', weren't you?” he asked me sternly, giving me a hard slap on the thigh.
“What's wrong with growing old gracefully?” he asked me.
I don't know.