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.
