For Christmas, I found my first silver hair, then more and more and more of them. They're hard to detect in the ash blonde surrounding them, but they're there. I saw them in the fluorescent hotel bathroom in Mexico.
I have two reactions.
I am elated at the idea of winning the hair lottery with first a beautiful color of blonde hair followed by the best color of gray.
And I am thrown by the idea of not being blonde and the way it chucks my identity around like I've just found myself in a rock tumbler. 10 years is what it takes to go gray. 10 years bouncing around, aging to old.
What if you don't recognize me or think I'm beautiful anymore? What if it means you don't know me? And the most bizarre is the idea that I don't know this self I am set to become. I'm the person who still jumps off cliffs and dances and blares music.
How do I reconcile that concept of self with a silver haired woman? I'm not cute and quiet and docile. I don't bake cookies. I eat raw dough from the fridge in the middle of the night in stolen moon hours.
I guess I'll have to find a way to make this me. I have a bit of time to congeal the new, older me. Or maybe a more likely reaction is to dye it purple and give hotel, florescent lights the middle finger. Or HOT PINK
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