A year ago a sixty-something year old woman whom I have known nearly all my life declared to me that I was looking very old.  I was caught off guard and so I did not respond verbally.  My jaw, however, dropped an inch.  This very young-looking sixty-something year old lady, who is quite beautiful, is not blind.  She saw my jaw drop.  She immediatly followed up with: “but at least you’re thin, so you can get away with looking old.”  Again, I was lost for words.

What I should have said, however, is: “perhaps if you give me the name and number of your fabulous plastic surgeon, I shall be able to correct the problem.”  Alas, I am slow with comebacks most of the time.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago, when a child at my sons’ school asked me if I was their grandma.  I had not yet turned forty.  I laughed when the child said this to me and told him that I was their Mummy.  I get that it would be quite possible for me to be a grandmother at my age, but seriously?!

For the record, I do not believe that there is anything wrong with being a grandmother, nor do I think there is anything wrong with being a grandmother at my age, but my children are under seven, so it did come as a surprise to be seen in that role.

I feel that I must disclose the fact that my hair is grey and that after dying it for almost twenty years, I was pushed to shave it all off, because the medication that I was taking at the time was causing it to fall out anyway.  My lovely locks were gone and I embraced the baldness.  Equally, I decided to embrace whatever would grow back in its place – a courser and far more grey version of what I had had before.  I turned 40 this week and I am still grey, but I’m not a granny.