It finally happened. He had already gone to bed but all of a sudden I heard a loud yell and the sound of a child getting the hell out of bed and running by vampire speed into the living room: His loose tooth was now VERY loose. He was so excited that he almost wept.

With the mustering of courage and a piece of dental floss, I yanked it out. His puny little tooth. We then spent about 30 minutes dancing about (mostly him), hollering victory-cries (only him), calling all the grandparents (he insisted!) and taking pictures (well, OK, that was me!).

Then we went about finding an appropriate resting place for the little tooth. I suspect Kim Jong Il’s family took cues via satellite spy – it is more or less the same kind of scale of hype we’re talking…

We ended up placing the deceased in an empty wooden jewelry box, ornamented with beautiful carvings, lined with silk and a winding brass lock with a floral theme. I suggested that we should have some spotlights installed but even though he is only six years old, he is not new to sarcasm so he dryly concluded that spotlights might be overdoing it.

I had totally forgotten how HUGE it is, to loose one’s first tooth. How it marks a rite of passage, how important it is, how it highlights his transition from boy to…. eh… boy with a gap in his row of teeth.

I wonder what the equivalent of loosing a tooth is, when you are in your 30s?

It matters so much because it is proof of his momentum. It proves that he is growing. Growing into himself.

Me… I can barely contain myself. I can tell that the curve has broken. It used to be that everything in my body was about development and growth – progress. Now it is all down hill: Regression. Well. Regression and unwanted hair.

What is UP with the hairs? Sprouting from all kinds of ungodly places on my body?? And until VERY recently, I was smugly rather pleased with myself and feeling pretty snide about the fact that I don’t have a SINGLE grey hair, while my girlfriends tell tales of yanking out long, disgusting pubic-quality white hairs for hours on end. Not me, I thought. MY grandmother died at 68 and SHE did not have a single grey hair and EVERYBODY thought she dyed it but she DIDN’T!

First, I thought it was just a freak accident. Now I see a pattern. I got my first grey. In my right eyebrow. It’s one of the ones I pick, but every couple of weeks, there it sits. All white and pubic-y. In my face. Fucker.

In some ways, nature is brilliant, though. While age has my body deteriorating, mentally I have also ripened. I am much more comfortable with who I am. Cliché or not, age has left me more mature. And with the confidence that follows, I am better able to tell the world to fuck off. Fashion, for instance. When I flip though a fashion magazine in my doctor’s waiting room, I almost loudly roll my eyes at this season’s “Must haves”.

Ugly-ass sweaters in multi-colour knit that would give Bill Cosby a 1984-boner. Shoes that make everybody walk like they shat themselves and look like they have clubfeet. Glasses so heinous, they make people look like they are from the 70’s. Oh, please!

As you’ll know, if you’ve read me before, I am all about it being practical and comfortable. I even gave up highlights. After 20 years of going for the blonde bombshell-look. Simply put it on my “Not-to-do-list”. So now my hair is a muddy-ish kind of chopped-liver colour. In a nice way. It looks good on me, I think. Anyway: I don’t care!

OK, I realize, it sounds like I am but ONE aura-reading from being the crazy lady with the bright robes, the bells, the long beard and tits on the loose. Let me reassure you:

The little white fucker in my eyebrow and the goatee goes.

In fact, in an average month, I probably remove unwanted hair equivalent to a small tooth.

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