Grey hair… why care?

A stop light. A routine afternoon glance into my vanity mirror.  A glint of hair too bright.

I gasp.  I tilt my head to see it clearer.  I free the strands nearest my ear.  Nestled contentedly within the black I see it. Is that tiny shine a… grey hair?


Suddenly, I feel some kinda way – – and that indescribable feeling washed over me.

I dial Mom’s cell. After a few rings, I disconnect.  She’s busy at work and can’t answer a private line.

I dial Hub’s cell.  The prerecorded lady answers on his behalf asking me to leave a message.

Silver and white streaks in one’s hair is a symbol of wisdom, I’ve heard.

My brothers have had them – and increasingly thinning hair – for years now.  But at 37, I’d never seen a white or silver hair on my head.

Perhaps I panicked in making my calls.  It was only a matter of time that my hair would no longer grow black. And yet, there was this sudden shock –  a finality of adulthood – in my discovery.  I’m now officially old.  I’m twenty years past high school graduation.  My first born daughter is in high school.  Rico is just shy of completing his diploma. I suspect my appearance will now quickly reflect my years.

Mom assured me there are many more lights in my dark tresses.  {Should I breathe a sigh of relief on that information?} Hubs merely laughed, feeling, I suspect, that finally I was joining the club.

I get it.  I’ll accept it. Life continues to move forward.  I’ve got so much yet to do.

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