Poornima peered at the mirror before her. Was that a wrinkle?
No. She would not stand for it. She would not.
She had accepted the graying with stoicism. No, she had accepted it with humour. She coloured her hair diligently. She constantly changed her parting to hide the worst of it. And she made fun of it before her friends.
But it hurt.
It hurt because the greying reminded her of all the goals not achieved by her in life: travel, fame, love, husband, kids and family.
And now there was the wrinkle staring back at her.
It’s not fair, she screamed silently, before feeling her shoulders sag at the thought of all the massages, facials, moisturisers, anti-ageing creams, and the jokes she would make about them before her friends.
At the venerable age of twenty four, Poornima felt the full force of an empty, inconsequential life before her.
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