I’m not sure when it first appeared. But I remember when I first saw it.

I was on my way to a video shoot. I stopped at my mom’s house on the way. We chatted for a bit as she prepared for work. That would make the morning time 7:30-ish. I grabbed something that may have passed for breakfast. On my way out the door, I stopped in the bathroom. Groomed my hair and there at the roof, standing out in sharp relief was a single strand. I thought it was lint. It wasn’t.

Grey hair. My first grey hair.

That was a year ago. Since, a few more have appeared. At the time of this writing, I haven’t yet turned 33.

“This family has always greyed early.” My mom says. Sure. Maybe.

But I know that’s not what’s really happening here. It’s stress. Annoyance. Frustration.
All those things that make a creative person consider a more fortuitious career at the sewer authority. At least, there you’re dealing with shit and not bullshit.

Every job has stress, annoyance and frustration you say? Fine. That explains your grey hair. This is my grey hair we’re talking about. Mine.

I spent all weekend working on a campaign. I design it and write it. I’m proud of it. I send it to the printer so that they can output some proofs to give the client. I have my nephew with me when I pick up the proofs. “Those are cool he says.”

$400 those proofs cost me. Sure, I’ll bill it back to the client. But for now, it’s 4 balls out of my pocket. But it’s worth it. This is a kick-ass campaign if I say so myself. Even the client agrees. Well, for now they agree. A week later, they change not only the campaign, but the philosophy behind it. All those meetings just went out the door. Time to re-think the campaign. I come back with new ideas that represent the new philosophy. They don’t like it. Repeat process a few more times before reaching the obvious and inevitable verdict: We revert back to the original campaign.

Okay. I can deal with that. I liked the original campaign. Lets do it. Weeks later, I never hear from the client. I finally send my contact over there an email asking on the status of the project. He’s a cool guy. Maybe even a friend. He sends a reply back: “They killed the campaign with minutes to go. Very threateningly.”

I get home. Another grey hair has appeared. I inspect it closely. I swear I can see a face on this one. It’s smiling at me. Rather wryly.

I smile back.

Fuck it. At least I’m not balding.