It started one day in my car, when I was headed to lunch with some co-workers. From her position behind the driver's seat, one of my colleagues had a prime view of the top and back of my head. And she said, "Oh, did you get highlights?"
I hadn't gotten highlights. Those not-so-brown threads she was seeing were my gray hairs.
For my co-worker, it was a small faux pas. For me, it was the beginning of a mild obsession with my old-lady hair.
I always seem to notice them at work. I have a long elevator ride to and from my office, and I'm often riding alone. There are mirrored doors in there. And bright spotlights overhead. I admit I've ripped out many a regular brown hair trying to hastily nip out the one rogue gray before I reach my floor. And then there's the ladies' room at work -- again with the mirrors and operating-room-quality overhead lighting. I can't wash my hands once without catching sight of them, and the urge to yank them out one by one is strong.
But recently, something's dawned on me. Well, something besides the fact that plucking out gray hairs is doomed to failure, because yes, Virginia, I am nearing 40, and yes, they will inevitably grow back. No, what I've realized is that I don't really have gray hairs. My wizened crone hairs are silver. Shiny. Sparkly. Glittery, even. And kind of... fabulous.
Suddenly I like the idea of leaving those hairs attached. Of seeing all my hairs go metallic. Wouldn't I look like some kind of awesome cyborg or otherworldy superhero with a mane of glimmering chrome? How is that anything but terrifically cool?
So, no more plucking, and certainly no dyeing -- I'm just not organized enough to keep up with a gray-covering regimen. I'm going to embrace my silvery tresses and walk into my golden years -- wait, no! my *silver *years -- stronger than ever.
Anyone with me? How do you feel about your gray hairs?
