This weekend is supposed to be a Big Deal for me. You see, it's my birthday. I am going to be 42.

Right around the time I turned 39, I sat getting a haircut. Inside the folds of those blue robes they snap around you, clumps of steel grey were collecting. I took one look and my pulse jumped through the roof.

"What is that!"
"Is this from me?"
"I don't have grey hair!"
(I really was upset.)

Flipped out would be a more accurate description. I whipped both my hands out from under the robe and tried to cover my head. "Dye it! Dye it! Now!"

My stylist slowly shifted her weight, standing back with comb and scissors. She was saying things, but I wasn't listening. Her pose was louder: What-Ev-Er.

For $85, she dyed it white blond, like Billy Idol. It was a two step process, and she used a brush to glop on a blue paste. It took several hours and she finished using about a pound of mousse. I smelled like chemicals and my scalp itched.

"Excuse me," a teenage girl stopped me in a restaurant, "Are you a model?" (aaah, $85 and worth every penny!) I bet she was joking, the little witch.

Eventually the blond grew out. Grey appears all over now and when I don't shave I see it in my beard. Oh hell, oh well.

I anticipate nothing so drastic this year. I'm hanging out with good friends and we're catching a band that I like...