The other day, someone had the temerity to inform me that I’m going grey. I’m not yet 30. And I’m going grey. Immediately my mind spiralled to the devastating consequences of this reality. I panicked. I grew despondent. I equated my grey hair with old age, and my old age with imminent demise. I looked at my life and regretted how little I’ve accomplished.

I went this morning for a haircut. I find something cathartic about cutting my hair. And how often and how short it gets cut is generally inversely proportional to my overall sense of peace with the world. So the fact that I’d gone almost six months without some drastic shave was impressive in its own right, writes Amanda Atwood.