While in Rome, I met a couple in their fifties. We all had greying hair, and being the youngest one of the three, I lamented mine openly. The man turned to his wife with a loving smile, and catching that smile she turned to me:
“I was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 23. I was told I probably wouldn’t live to see 25, but here I am. Every wrinkle, every grey hair, I now wear proudly, because I was never meant to have any of them.”
I haven’t found an enemy in the mirror since that day.
