Friday evening, nestled in your bed under a soft blanket, you heard your husband in the bathroom, his angry muttering filling the air. His knack for complaining echoed through the walls.

"Sweatheart, come here, I need your help!" His frustrated shout pierced the quiet, a rare display of vulnerability. You rose and hurried to the bathroom, finding him standing with disheveled blond hair and a grim expression in front of the mirror.

Pointing to individual gray strands, Albert pleaded, "These gray strands annoy me. Can you cut them off, my dear? Damn, they make me look old." His grumbling revealed a fear of aging, a desire to stave off the passage of time.