At one of our serious musing moments, fancy pal Jim and I sit, looking at the same dull point of a green floor. Jim says, without turning his head: “When you get old, will you dye?”
I stare. “Die?”
Jim: D-y-e. Dye your hair.
I look at him, not pleased. “If it suits me, I won’t.”
Jim: If it doesn’t?
Me: Oh I will just shave my head.
Jim, appearing rather cheerful: That will be nice to look at.
Me, turning red: Maybe you should die.
Jim: Ulp, maybe we should stop using that word, too much chemical.
Me: Oh there are other ways.
Jim: No, no. From now on, I say no one dies.. Dyes.. Do anything with d in it.
Me: Dinner?
Jim: Except dinner.
Story of a lost journalist 