I found a grey hair this morning.
I was attempting to do something fancy with my hair, and cursing my 2″ long roots (a by-product of my inability to decide if I should go back to my natural color or continue with Red Velvet from Feria).
I was attempting to manage a mouthful of bobby pins and twisted a section of my kinda-red hair away from my face, and there it was.
It wasn’t right in the front, but close enough that I could see it plain as day as I put on my makeup.
And I was torn.
I could freak out because I’m only mumble-mumble years old and that’s way too young to be grey already. (It’s not too old, as half the moms my age are greying.)
I could freak out because society says grey hair leads to wrinkles and then it’s just a slip and a slide into old age.
I could freak out because I finally remember exactly how old I am.
I could see my grey hair as a badge of honor. I made it far enough in my life to earn some grey hairs, and I should be proud that I made it this far.
I could see my grey hair AND my wrinkles as a sign that I am awesome enough to have lived a life to cause laugh lines and grey hairs.
I could see my grey hair as a reminder that I am aging somewhat gracefully, and still don’t remember how old I am when people ask me (and that’s not a sign of senility, just denial).
I’m still torn.
And I need some more hair dye, I think.