Roses are red, my hair is gray...

I just can't rock the gray streak like Stacey does.

My 26th birthday is Monday, and I can already feel Father Time tick-tick-ticking away at me. And he's attacking my hair.

I have a pretty set after-work routine. I always brush my hair when I get home because, somewhere between the hours of 8 a.m.-5 p.m., birds nest in my hair. It's like I work in a wind tunnel. I don't know how it gets so tangled just sitting at a desk. As I was untying my hair knots, I noticed a glint. Not a "Oh, my hair's so shiny like a Pantene commercial" glint, but a silver glint. A gray glint.

I've seen this guy before. The first time I plucked him from my head and had Scott convince me that he was actually blonde. The second time he hid beneath his dark brown brothers, escaping my clutches and living to go on being gray another day. But last night, he was unabashedly gray — slapping me in the face, taunting me with early bird specials and orthopedic shoes. And this time, he brought friends — well, a friend and a half. There was one who was semi-converted and had only partially gone over to the dark side — make that the gray side.

I searched and separated and singled out the offenders, read them their last rites, and yanked them from my head, sending them to spend the remainder of their days in the sink drain.

But then, this morning, I was shaken to my core when I saw a snowy white hair waving at me — from my eyebrow. Really? What cruel twist of fate is this? Not only will I be forced to dip my head in the dark, muddy waters of permanent hair dye to control the mutiny there, but I'll also be forced to dye my eyebrows?

I give up. Start sending me my membership card, AARP. I'll be at Western Sizzlin' at 3 p.m. if you need me.