I have just spent a considerable amount of time in the hairdresser's, having my grey roots re-done. IMO, grey hair has to be resisted - to the grave. The lovely Jane does her best to make this a positive and uplifting experience, with cheerful conversation, coffee and magazines, but it is in fact a tedious business, and a dispiriting one. There is something about all salon lighting which, when paired with a voluminous black gown hideously gathered round one's neck, accentuates and magnifies every physical flaw - and there is no escape from the mirror. This means the joy of having one's hair colour of choice restored is always spoiled by a cruel, cutting yet unspoken message about the ravages of time, and the futility of fighting a battle thirty years too late.
Normally, I don't really care all that much about eyebags, wrinkles or crow's feet, the bodily effects of gravity, or even the obvious consequences of a misspent youth, but I suspect that the same number of hours spent with the Dementors would be a happier experience than my 6-weekly stint under the black gown.
The dog was pleased to see me return, however. She doesn't care if I have grey, green or ginger hair, or if my laughter lines look more like furrows of despair. Come to think of it, she doesn't worry much about her own hair, her dog-breath, or her mostly missing teeth. She just does Unconditional Lurve, and does it no matter what I look like.