Feeling Gravity's Pull

I’m letting my hair grow out, and it’s at that awkward stage. My bangs are too long and the sides are scraggly, so I sometimes use headbands to keep the wild tresses tamed. Today I went vintage, pulling the bangs and sides on top of my head, fastened with a stylish tortoise-shell barrette. And what I saw made my heart stop: a huge streak of gray hair curling behind my left ear. Not just a few strands, but a wide swath of salt and pepper, my youth draining from my curls.

I look pretty good, but I’m just back-dated, yeah.

I’ve always seen myself as the type who will grow old gracefully and naturally. I’ve had a few shoots of gray here and there, but I’ve been happily surprised that my hair has naturally stayed Ronnie Reagan black for so long. I planned on going all Emmylou, embracing my gray and coming out with a lovely head of white flowing locks. I’ve earned those grays and I thought I’d celebrate the new stage.

Every silver lining's got a touch of grey.

And yet … I feel old every time I look at that streak. It isn’t cool like Elsa Lanchester’s in “Bride of Frankenstein.” It looks dowdy, past its prime. I’ve found myself wondering if it’s Clairol time. The women in my family miraculously turn blonde when they hit the gray stage. But I don’t think I can rock a blonde ‘do like they do.

How young are you? How old am I?
Let’s count the rings around my eyes.

So, do I give in to vanity and ageism … or do I suck it up and learn to love the gray? And if I give in, which flavor am I? The saucy redhead? A demure brunette, with a few streaks of blonde? Dying it the same shade of black is out since that color rarely replicates well out of a bottle. Violet would be fun ...

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