Poirot laughed heartily. "Ah, you remember that? Alas! No, science has not yet managed to convince hens to align with modern preferences; they still lay eggs of various sizes and colors!" I observed my old friend with a fond gaze. He seemed to be in excellent condition, as if not a day had passed since the last time I saw him. "You look great, Poirot," I said. "You haven't aged at all. In fact, if I didn't know it was impossible, I would say you have fewer gray hairs than the last time we met." Poirot smiled broadly at me. "And why would that be impossible? It's absolutely true." "You mean your hair is gradually turning black from gray, instead of black turning gray?" "Exactly." "But that can't be, scientifically it doesn't hold up!" "On the contrary." "What can I say, it sounds incredible to me. Against nature..." "As usual, Hastings, you have a wonderful but unsuspecting way of thinking. You observe one element and describe the answer in the same sentence without even realizing it!"
I remained looking at him puzzled. Without a word, he went into his bedroom and returned holding a bottle, which he handed to me. I took it; at first, I didn't understand. It bore the following words: Revivit – To restore the natural tone of hair. Revivit is not a dye. Available in five shades: honey, chestnut, golden-red, brown, black. "Poirot!" I exclaimed. "You dyed your hair!" "Ah, now you're beginning to understand!" "So that's why your hair is darker than the last time I saw you." "Exactly." "Incredible," I said, trying to recover from the shock. "I imagine that next time I come, I'll find you sporting a fake mustache... or are you already doing that?" Poirot frowned. He had always been particularly sensitive about his mustache. He was extremely proud of it. My words hurt him.