Loving the sh*t out of 21. Image supplied.

A tiny grey-hair peers out at me from the top of my head. A two-minute internal meltdown follows.

“I’m only 26, how do I have a grey-hair already?” I ask myself.

My slightly melodramatic panic quickly eases, thanks to that good ol’ thing called perspective. The irony is also not lost on me when, later that day, I’m asked to show my id while picking up some wine at the local bottle shop. The world is right again.