How I Accidentally Spent $60 For A Bottle of Shampoo

My university roommate, W., used to tell stories of how her grandparents coped with the "problem" of driving.

Neither of them could see very well, particularly her grandfather, but since he was loath to give up his license, the pair came up with a system of tandem driving. While her grandfather manned the steering wheel, gas pedal and brake, my friend's grandmother served as the eyes.

"Turn, turn, turn! You're going to hit a garbage can. No, I'm wrong - it's a pregnant woman" and "You can't park there, you'll flatten the motorcycle" served as the conversational fodder inside their Buick.

Oh how we laughed when W. regaled us with stories of these folks, never for a minute suspecting that we would become just like them.

With each passing day, my vision seems to be deteriorating and with it goes my ability to cope in this world.

At the hairdresser last week, I complained to the stylist about my flyaway hair. "I have just the thing," she replied, leading me to the Wall-O-Product at the front of the salon. After a minute or two of searching, she handed me a tiny pink tube and pointed at the directions on the back.

She, apparently, saw something that directed the user to apply a pea-sized amount. I saw fuzzy black lines.

Not wanting to be bothered with fumbling in my purse for reading glasses, I thanked her for her trouble, took the bottle to the desk and slapped down my credit card to pay. I remember thinking the price seemed a little hefty but I was preoccupied with getting home and thought I vaguely remembered hearing something on the news about an increase in the GST.

It wasn't until I got home and fished out my reading glasses that I noticed the price tag on the tube - $60 for enough shampoo to get me through three or four washes.

And while we're on the topic of reading glasses, saviour or Satan - you tell me.

While they're a godsend for seeing anything close up, they impair my distance vision and make me woozy whenever I lift my head. Hence, I am always putting them down. Hence, I am always losing them.

The words, "Has anyone seen my reading glasses?" echoes through our household 24/7. My children, in fact, are on a permanent retainer for reading glasses search duty.

Embarrassingly, I find I've begun doing that weird, unflattering thing of pushing them down the bridge of my nose when I need to see anything more than two feet away. Not only does it give me that snooty, academic look, I find it pinches my nostrils and is impairing my ability to breathe.

My husband happened upon me on the front porch the other day, gasping for air, my reading glasses gripping the bulbous part of my nose like like a newborn's grasp. "Are you all right?" he queried as he rushed to my side. "Yes, yes I'm fine. I was just getting the mail when I noticed the Anderson's pool boy. I was trying to get a better look."

If there is any comfort in this rite of passage into maturity, it comes from my husband. Not because he is sympathetic. Not because he still finds me appealing - fuzzy eyesight and all. But because his eyes are worse than mine.

While we were driving home from dinner at friends the other night, I had to warn him to be careful. A couple were out walking their dog and he came a little too close as they were crossing the street.

"Wow, thanks" he offered. "I didn't even see them."

"No problem," I said. "I'll be your eyes."