This morning I was sitting on the couch checking my email before work, and finger-combing my hair. Naturally, a whole handful comes out (hey, it’s not as bad as some points in my life, but yeah, it’s not good either) and as I pulled the strands out from their weavings around my fingers, I noticed one of them in particular. It’s silvery white.
I have always guessed I would go grey, since my Dad was pretty salt-and-pepper before he ever turned forty. Part of me really likes the idea, since I think that silvery-grey hair is really beautiful. This one hair certainly was. It’s grey at the root, but the older part is still golden, as if it caught a worry at its very conception.
I’m always a little miffed when hair dressers pull the grey hairs as they cut and style. “I just got that one for you, dear.” Did I ask you to cull my hair? No. Please leave it alone. That grey hair is meaningful to me. It’s hard-earned. I’ve lived a third of my life, most likely, and I deserve the credit and proof.
On the other hand, I would have liked to have had the chance to have children and a family before the descent into gravitas. Seriously.