**November 2007**
I am thirty now.
A few strands of grey hair have suddenly appeared on my chin. A definite clarion call of age.
We do our best to hide the signs of our advancing age. We are pitted against these rebellious outcroppings on our face and head. But we don't let them prevail without a stern colouring, masking and cutting fight while they are still in the minority.
During our thirties, we weed them out, colour them, do everything that cosmetics allow us.
But over a period of time, it proves to be a losing battle.
It takes almost a decade for us to accept the baldy, wrinkled, grim reality by the forties.
The rebel line is beyond our powers, and we meekly accept our fate.
I, being in my present state, have clearly and cleanly cut down the rebellion, for there were only three enemy troops.
It is, however, another matter that I will be required to repeat the feat every time my stubble is a few days old, because I can cut the outer vestiges of age—that's true for a time—but not the roots of it.
They are too deep. They can't be rooted out.
It will happen, as it has been happening always to all of us.
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