Member-only story
I Have to Be Honest, I Wasn’t Ready to Join the Gray Hair Gang
The first time I saw it I thought it was piece of lint. I was sporting a cropped fade haircut that was in desperate need of cutting. The pandemic was in full swing, and all the barbershops were closed. Me being the rule follower I am obeyed the mandate despite my barber texting me that he was still quietly booking appointments.
No matter how many times I brushed the fuzzy jet-black crown on my head the “lint” refused to budge. I leaned closer towards the bathroom mirror for a closer inspection and realized it was a gray hair. My first one. I had just turned forty. Damn. I screamed silently.
It was short and stubby and more white than gray. I glared at it attempting to make it disappear, but it glared back at me in defiance. I reached in my bathroom cabinet and grabbed a pair of tiny scissors and cut it right out and forgot about it. Of course, it grew back because it’s hair and that’s what hair does. It was a single little strand, so I cut it again and again. It became a vicious cycle of foolery competing with vanity because I was not ready to go gray. Not yet.
I wish I could say I was cool with going gray, but I wasn’t at the time. This little gray hair represented the one part of aging I couldn’t physically control, and that bothered me. No matter how much water I drank, how many miles…
