Silver Fox It has been nearly six weeks since I last dyed my hair. This I know from a series of indicating factors that tell me so. 1) the inconsistent orangey color of my mane, 2) the additional thirty dollars in my pocketbook, and 3) the seedlings of numerous silvery hairs at my roots. I can cope with numbers 1 and 2, (especially 2, though it may be argued that my increased wealth can also be attributed to my luck with seasonal scratch-off lotto tickets), but I am unable to enjoy this newfound prosperity because I am all the while pestered by thoughts of my graying hair. Why, nature? Why? This cruel and irreversible process of aging is too much for me to handle now, in the twilight of my youth. I know that I am young; there is no doubt about that. My radical ideas about the world, wild manner of dress, and rampant feelings of apathy all point to YOUTH. So the question remains, why is my young hair being punished? Do these gray follicles know not the year I was born? I can tell you – it was 1984. Much like the George Orwell novel of the same name. Ironically, I know nothing of this Orwell fellow because I am so young and ignorant. I don’t need to prove anything though, for I am forever young at heart. Now I am going to take that wad of cash and buy some hair color. Or maybe a razor scooter!