Yup, it’s my birthday and I’ve finally reached the big 3-0. Thirty. Wow. I still feel 18. It only seems like yesterday when I was trying to pass my driving test and when I was getting mad cuz clubs kept asking me for ID and supermarkets refused to sell me alcohol. My, my how things change…
In all honesty, I don’t care about hitting 30. I actually feel quite excited about the coming decade. Unlike my twenties, this decade offers far more certainties; my thirties will be when I finally settle down, have kids (god willing), fulfil at least one of my career aspirations and actually decide exactly what it is I want out of life. Although I’m in no hurry to achieve any of these things for a few years yet, it’s clear that as a female, I have a biological clock that will start to falter by 40 and I’ve got no desire to be a single mum so I’ll have to think about giving my heart away to someone. Thankfully, my career is already on the rise and I feel far more focused and determined than I’ve ever been.
What I don’t like about reaching 30 is how other people react and respond to me. How many (unfunny) ‘you’re getting old’ jokes can one girl endure? Not many, believe me. And to the Greek relatives who keep telling me that they know a lovely Greek guy they want me to meet – please! I’m not a racehorse. You can’t just breed me with good stock and hope for the best. Give a girl a chance! I can find my own man believe it or not.
But what’s the solution to all of this? Well, I think I’ve cracked it… forget Oil Of Olay, Botox, facelifts and tummy tucks – the secret to eternal youth is simple: as of tomorrow, I’m wearing only ‘hoodies’ and trying to get myself an ASBO. Then I’ll go around proudly telling people that I’m 30, watching smugly as their faces tense with shock and they utter the beautiful words “But I thought you were still in your teens…”.
On Wednesday 21st December 2006, I spotted something on my head, glinting in the light. I was in the middle of a press junket with a gorgeous American actor and all I could think about was the silver lightening bolt seemingly coming out of my head. On close inspection, it turned out to be my first grey hair. I tried to convince myself that it was blonde, but I could clearly see the difference.
Needless to say, I promptly yanked out the offending strand and put it in a little purple box. It’s saved for the day when I have a whole head of grey hair and need to turn to L’Oreal for help. I can use it to do a strand test and see which fake hair colour will work best. Funnily enough, I thought my L’Oreal years were a long way off but now I think I’m getting a second grey hair. This is terrible. TERRIBLE. What’s next? Growing a beard? Personally, I’d opt for electrolysis… but back to the original dilemma… what do I do about my grey hair?
I’m thinking I should grow a full bush of pubes before I go grey down there as well and have no option but to take it all off. But I can’t bring myself to go around looking like Epping Forest. Plus, I’m not sure I’ll ever find a bloke brave enough to face this undergrowth. The jungle life isn’t for everyone, after all. Maybe I can wax it into a neat ‘landing strip’ and, with the help of a bit of Velcro, stick on a brown muff wig (the correct term is ‘merkin’ in case you want to know). Failing that, I guess I could embrace my grey and try to change perceptions of the ageing female by flashing my bits proudly to anyone who wants a look-see. But life as a stripper called Silver Fox would have too many draw-backs… all women go grey eventually so the competition would be too fierce.
Maybe I’m thinking too deeply about grey affecting my minge? I ought to focus on my face. At least a grey ‘tash would be invisible. And even the beard won’t need electrolysis if it’s grey. Hey, maybe there’s an up-side to going grey after all… or am I just trying to convince myself? Either way, the fact remains – I’m getting old. Blimey. I guess I need to grow up now and act more mature. Or I need to find a much older man who’ll make me look like an 18 year old in comparison. Does anyone have a fit grand-dad? Just kidding! What I meant to say was does anyone have a rich and fit grand-dad? Then he can buy me some dark brown hair implants. Who says I need to go grey, eh? Hell no. Not me.