On facebook today, I posted a little story about a woman asking me if I was a grandmother. Her friend said that I looked too young in the face to be a grandmother.
I stood there in a sort of disbelief thinking to myself: Could it really be true? Have I not taken the time to look, I mean REALLY look at myself in the mirror? Have I allowed these years of motherhood, teaching, and life’s stress do me in?
I laughed about it with my friends, Jessica and Charlene. We all knew the comment was “warranted” because of my gray hair. I try to get it dyed and cut every six weeks or so, but life happens and sick babies, therapy, messy houses, and lack of funds happen, too. I started graying around 14 years old. It, of course, got progressively worse, and by the time I had Maggie, I was about 80% gray. 8 years later, by the time I had Samuel, I was done for. I am silver. No trace of my youth to be found in those thousands of strands sitting atop this tired head.
I have debated letting it go natural. I’ve tried to convince myself that being the “real” me was the answer. I am tired of the money and work it requires to maintain. BUT, that is not me. I loved my dark hair. I miss and even grieved it when I could no longer see traces of my yesteryears. I am not a girly girl, really. I like comfort. I don’t do manicures, and I only sometimes do pedicures. And, truly, I avoid dresses at all cost, if I can help it.
But, I just feel more like me when I have my hair done. I may have crows feet and laugh lines, but those just prove to me that I am working hard AND enjoying life. Those- I’m okay with. Those have many stories hidden in them. But, I just got unlucky with the premature gray gene. So, I’ve decided to dye until, well maybe, I die.
thisblandlife 