I am no stranger to gray hairs. I have had at least one or two since my tween years, sprouting up sporadically here or there. Gray hair is just a part of my DNA, my makeup–grandma fully white-headed by the time I was born, mom and auntie and uncle with salt and pepper wings, my younger brother with the segzy white patch in the front–gray hair is my heritage. In my family, we expect it–welcome the battle to color it or at the very least bend it to our will.
But then suddenly, I found gray hair…in my nether regions. Not just one either! Nothing prepared me for the panic that crawled into my soul and squatted for all times. What the WHUT?!? When did THAT happen? When did I become old enough to have gray hairs in the sexy bits? After freaking out for a minute, I did what any self respecting adult would do: I pulled them out. I know, I know. A thousand shall surely spring up in their places, the hydra of women’s beauty.
I am not prepared to be a full on adult–which sounds stupid because I am already one, but mentally, I am still in the process of turning that corner. I have just barely made a living for myself, just started to live life only to find Father Time straight lurking in the one place I never expected dude to hang out.
Then I remembered: I am almost 37 years old. I have an almost 10 year old and an almost 8 year old. I have been married almost 11 years. I graduated from high school 18 years ago. I am older. Approaching old. And it frightens me. Because I am not yet ready to face these facts of age, aging, and the changes to come.
And that’s all I have to say about that.