I found my first gray hair when I was twenty-five. It was summer and it was traumatic.
I'd come home to surprise Ian for his high school graduation and my hair, used to the cool, damp climate of London, was freaking out. After an intense battle, I was finally able to beat my bangs into submission by dutch-braiding the heck out of them, like so:
The battle won, I leaned in to inspect my handiwork when what to my horrified eyes should appear but a silver hair making itself exponentially known by snaking in and out of the braid across my entire forehead. I may or may not have screamed and immediately shaved my head. Just kidding. But I thought about it.
Every few months since that summer another gray hair pops up in exactly the same place. A little bit back from my hairline, just to the right of my part. And every few months I pull it out and lament again the loss of my innocence.
Tonight I found another one. Only, I’m pretty sure I found the last one on Christmas Eve, so I think they’re coming faster.
The time has come to just admit and embrace it:
I've gone Rogue.