“Say it isn’t so,” I think as I examine myself in the mirror. And yet, no matter how hard I wish it weren’t true, it is. It is, indeed, another gray hair. They’ve been popping up like weeds in fertilizer lately. For as much as I loved being a raven-haired beauty for the first thirty plus years of my life, I curse it now. Of course, I couldn’t be granted the unique silver streaks that tell of aging gracefully. I have the misfortune of stark white coming in non-uniform clumps throughout my head. My natural hair part acts like a bulls-eye, and in case you don’t notice that, it also frames my face at the cusp of my hairline, making ignoring it completely impossible. This reality check makes me study my face for other tell-tale signs of age. There are plenty. Not just my face, but I’ll get to those later. My eyes are sinking back into my skull creating an eyelid overhang that would perplex the finest architects contem...