On getting old

At the weekend I had a haircut. Around here, there isn't a wealth of bad punnage in the form of hair salons like "Hair today, gone tomorrow" or "Curl up and dye." In fact, we have two male hairdressers, RJ's and some old guy with a limp. It is for this reason I got hair clippers, and now do my own hairstyle. Admittedly, style isn't the word, but seeing as my hair's only manageable when short it does me for what I want. And so, on Saturday morning, out came the clippers.
I find the best way to keep the mess down is to fill the hand basin with water, that way as the hair comes off, it's dumped into the sink and being wet doesn't blow away accidentally. It is also the point where my natural colour gets a lot darker, and I realise just how much grey I have. I'm guessing I have exceptional hair colour, because the grey just doesn't show at all normally, but get my hair wet, and I look like I've been cross-mated with a badger. Large clumps of darker hair are interspersed with silvery locks that would have any Grecian 2000 agent rubbing their hands with glee.
Don't get me wrong. My father's sort of gone grey. He's also sort of gone thinner on top as well. This doesn't look so bad, except when he grows a beard and ends up looking like a skunk has taken root to his chin. This tells me one thing however. I must not grow a beard. I'll end up looking like a middle-aged IT expert, and it's all downhill from there. I'll end up wearing shirts with jumpers over the top, or corduroy trousers. I'll have conversations with other 'IT experts' about which version of Linux is best. I'll offer my opinion of the great ATI/NVidia debate.

Oh.

Yes. I'm getting old.