I thought I saw white hair strands when I was looking at the mirror tonight. I double checked and triple checked… It was just the reflection of the lamplight on my black hair.

I was surprised by my reaction; I didn’t imagine that I would panic at the sight of white hair. I thought I wasn’t bothered about ageing—except for the backpain that came with it—but I guess I was wrong. I did care how about it would affect the color of my hair. I don’t know why it did.

You see, I like myself now better than I was in my 20s and 30s. I am turning 45 in three weeks and I feel like this age is pivotal. Not young but not old. I have wisened up but I’m still just winging it in life. I still haven’t figured it out and I just make stuff up as I go along.

I feel like life is just starting for me. I’m not physically tied anymore to my infants, toddlers, or pre-schoolers. I no longer have to stress about my school graders. I finally have my own thing as my now-teenaged kids have theirs. I am no longer tied and held back by a partner.

I’m still young. I have yet to do many things.

I think I panicked when I mistakenly saw white hair strands because that is the signal that I am indeed old. Maybe the inner me rejects the idea that I am old, that I can’t do anything else, and that I am now limited in terms of what I can do. That is one half of what makes me scared about ageing—I’m afraid of limits, of being boxed in or pigeonholed. Because women of certain age are boxed in or pigeonholed by society. I am deathly afraid of that ceiling that is/will be put over me.

I want to have Iris Apfel’s spirit—she didn’t let age stop her from pursuing life. At age 97 she was signed on as a model by IMG because she was so much sought after by so many brands.

I want to think that age is just a number, ageing is all in the mind.

My back, however, disagrees.