When I was young, piously, the decision was made that there would never be any plastic surgery (except my neck, if I get a chicken neck-- we’ll kiss that sucker good-bye). Like my Aunt Susie, I would let my hair naturally go from brown to gray and I would go along with it. Life’s a journey and there is little room for vanity.
Until this morning. Well, let me back up. Two days ago, I was giving myself a haircut -- not a real one, there were just a few loose strands that needed some snipping and this coupon clipper was not going to spend $56 on that. Snip snip sn- What is that?! Surely, no. I’m barely 30 and ...There It Was.
My first gray hair.
It flittered out of my shaking hand before closer inspection. Amongst the hundreds of thousands of strands of hair on my head, the one discolored could not be found. Surely, SURELY, it was nothing more than a reflection of the bad lighting in our windowless bathroom.
Cursing the bathroom and missing our sunlight filled Raymond Ave, the Heavens were sent a thank-you for lack of grays. Forget vanity, I have a head full of beautiful glossy brown hair.
This morning, though. This morning, Husband and Wife woke up- Husband with the mildest of hangovers (he’s currently sleeping in the chair) due to his Christmas party last night (Check the calendar, it’s February 13th) with his department and I set to work on some blueberry pancakes that were pathetically undercooked and lacked all the wonderfulness that pancakes offer one on a Sunday morning, especially after a hard Saturday night.
I pulled my “mom cut” back with a small clip and the baby wisps by my temple fell out, as they have done my whole life.
And there was another one.
Holy Shirts, Bat Man. I’m going gray.
Screw aging gracefully.