I like stories

Every few years, my grandmother randomly accuses me of being a natural blonde who dyes my hair brown.

When she does this, I tell her that I haven’t been blonde since I was about four. And she says “Really?” As though she’s trying to believe me but knows I’m lying.

I’ve tried showing her pictures of myself as a child (of which she has plenty, btw). I’ve tried showing her my ever-widening grey streaks (what, did I dye those in, too?). But proof is irrelevant. As far as she’s concerned, all of her grandchildren are fair-haired and I’m just a faker.

“You have such lovely blonde hair,” she says, “I don’t know why you put that stuff in it.”

I should highlight at this point that I have on idea what my grandmother’s natural hair colour is. She’s dyed it for decades.

I was going to use this story as a metaphor but I’ve decided that I like it the way that it is 🙂

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