I’ve always said that I was going to age gracefully.
That I would welcome each laugh line as a sign of a happy life.
That I would cherish the wrinkles on my forehead as evidence that I was constantly surprised by a life well lived.
That I would embrace the gray hairs as they started to sprout from my head as a signal that I’ve lived and survived.
Until two days ago.
When I noticed more than a few gray hairs growing from my scalp.
Stuff just got real.
My superior thoughts about how I’d hold my head high as I aged began to flee one at a time, as I combed through my hair and found about five silver strands mixed in with the blonde.
“How soon can I get an appointment?” I wondered.
“Should I just pick up some Sun-In in the meantime and try to do a home fix?”
I combed my hair back and forth over my scalp, adjusting the lights to see if more appeared in brighter or dimmer light, trying to see if there were more to the left or the right, seeing if I could hide them in a ponytail.
“Hey Mom. Watcha doin’?” Monkey in the Middle asked as he walked in the bathroom (because, as we’ve established, nowhere in my home is sacred “Me” space).
“Just looking at my hair…I found some gray hairs on my head. Soon enough, my whole head of hair will be silver.”
“Wow…I bet that’s going to be really pretty, Mom.”
I put down the comb and looked at this boy who was looking at me earnestly.
Not trying to butter me up for anything.
Not realizing that I was even feeling angst over the grays.
Simply stating what he believed to be fact.
I’m not saying that his statement completely wiped away any anxiety I may have had over those silver strands.
I’m not saying that I don’t take closer looks at my scalp when I’m getting ready in the morning.
What I am saying is that I put down that comb, hugged that boy, said “Thank you, sweetie…I bet it will,” and started thinking about all of the beautiful women I know with full heads of silvery white hair.
And I realized that in the eyes of those that matter most, the color of my hair really isn’t important.
Good thing to know, since my hairdresser didn’t have an available appointment for two weeks.
That’s sweet. I started going gray about 25… When I was 30 and was looking for a new hairdresser one of the ones I tried actually told me I was about 25% gray… I like to believe it’s just a few. I also keep saying that I’ll stop dying it when I’m 30, or 35, or 40 – but yeah, I break down and buy another box.
My son is a lot less kind with his comments on my appearance. Last time he same in the bathroom while I was getting ready our conversation went like this:
Mom, what are you doing?
I’m putting on my makeup.
Why?
Because it helps me look pretty.
Put on more, Mom.
Comment by sara842 — June 29, 2013 @ 10:42 pm |
[…] Gray, Amy […]
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Ah, well, I found someone. Oh, I wish I’d found your site last week! Great site, I’ll be back!
Comment by texasplaywrightchick — April 1, 2014 @ 4:43 pm |