Tinman’s camera-less attempt at the WordPress Photo Challenge….
In the dim light of slowly brightening dawn he woke and stumbled blearily into the bathroom. He looked in the mirror and there was his face, just as it had always been, unchanged and unaged.
But someone had put someone else’s hair on top of it. Unlikely as it seemed, someone had crept into his room during the night and put a wig on his head. Or a floor mop.
He looked again, sighed, and faced the obvious, the elephant in the mirror that he had been ignoring for months now. He was grey.
In fact, he was about fifty shades of grey, though without the money and the interest from women. Most women he knew at work had read the book, saying that they knew that it would be rubbish but they were willing to give it a try anyway. He wished that they would take the same chance with him.
He wondered where his life had gone. He had thought that by now he would be married, childrened, settled. But girlfriends had come and gone. Casual flings had remained casual, then he had flung or been flung. His thirties had become his forties, now he was fifty, and he was alone. And grey.
He could dye it, of course. He could be one of the guys in the TV ads, tooth-brushing colour gradually into his hair until he was suddenly a fully fledged brunette, getting promotions at work and girls at will. He would be the male equivalent of the secretary who one day takes off her glasses, unleashes her hair from its tight bun and shakes it out into wild blonde waves, making everybody in the office realise that she had been beautiful all along.
He realised that he had no idea if it’s possible for men to be brunette, or if it’s a word that can only apply to girls. He also realised that he had no idea what colour brunette actually is.
It could be worse, he told himself. He could be bald. He could be ginger. He could be bald and ginger, like Ronald McDonald. Bet he doesn’t have a girlfriend, he thought.
Grey is distinguished, people would say to him, the same type of people who say that wrinkles add character and that women don’t go for looks, they prefer a man who can make them laugh. This was rubbish, George Clooney had never said anything funny in his life and women adored him.
Hang on. Women adored George Clooney. Who was grey. And women adored him. That was worth saying again.
The thought cheered him up enormously. He got ready and headed out to work, distinguished, character-filled and ready for women to laugh at him.
The train was packed, but he noticed a pretty girl looking at him. He confidently returned her look, just about resisting the urge to wink at her. She leaned forward to speak to him and he smiled at her.
She offered him her seat.