I’ll be 65 shortly – March 28th – and in the unusual situation where I heartily wish I was a year older. I’d be in possession of the free bus pass, free phone rental, and home heating allowance – all the gifts currently enjoyed by the tribe of elders (those over 66), which the government is threatening to withhold from newcomers as of next year.
This will not be the first time the government has ruined my birthday. When I turned 60 in 2004, the-then minister for health Micheal Martin introduced a smoking ban, which came into effect that very night and I was confined to an eating-and-drinking celebration at home.

This time round though, I’m laughing. I am ahead of the curve. A long time ago, I figured out that growing old involves a horrendous expense: I knew from the laments of friends that colouring your hair cost a fortune. And also left it thin. So the day I woke up with pale hair was the day I resolved to do nothing about it. That was around 1990, when I was a stripling of 46. I had gone to sleep with a dark Afro and I woke up with no Afro, limp curls, and hair that was a distinctly whiter shade of brown.
Women of my acquaintance and my age were aghast. If I did not dye my hair, everyone would know that their lustrous locks came out of the bottle; crucially, people would wonder if their proclaimed age came out of the realms of fantasy.
Nearly two decades later, friends are joining me in the silver revolution. Meryl Streep was a great help in this small step forward for woman, a giant leap for womankind. Her silver hair was absolutely fabulous when she played a glamorous fashion magazine editor in The Devil Wears Prada. Never mind that she had to use a bottle to get the colour just right – I get it for nothing.

The government cannot make me pay for going au naturel. It cannot tax me. For once, I get something for nothing. All together now, ye women of a certain age: “Darling, I am growing old, silver hairs among the gold.” There is not a thing the-tax-anything-that-moves government can do to us, and we have the birth certificates to prove it.
What am I talking about, women of a certain age indeed? My hair has saved me a small fortune since I refused to hit the bottle way back in 1990. For the past few years now, I have been automatically offered senior citizen reductions wherever I have gone – to the cinema and museums and last year, gloriously, I was given a free bus ride on a London bus. “Forgotten your pass, love?” the conductor kindly inquired.
I do not hit people with my handbag or go into high dudgeon when I am mistaken for an aul wan. I grin and accept the patronage of the young. Because I’m worth it.