I’m leaning over the bathroom sink, my nose thisclose to a relatively clean mirror. I’m as terrible at applying makeup as the day I started wearing it in the 8th grade. I guess there are some things adulthood just can’t fix.
I stand back and stare at myself with a sliver of disdain the majority of women know all too well. The bags under my eyes could use a little more foundation and the black liner outlining one eye is slightly thicker than the other. I know trying to even them out would result in a look only a raccoon would be proud of, so I reach for the half-used lip gloss on the edge of the counter instead.
That’s when I see it.
A single, defiant, horrid white hair.
It’s staring back at me from the top of my head, pushing the other brunette strands…
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