One.
The first.
Right up front.
I've never really had the kind of hair that stirs jealousy. It's fine and won't hold a curl for anything (just ask the perm of 1988). But the colour has won the admiration of many a stylist. They tell me I would be rich if I could bottle it.
Now, grey.
I found it during a final glance in the mirror on my way to a much-needed night out. I always thought I'd be a panicky mess. It's what we're supposed to feel, right? But I was running late and didn't have time to dwell.
Later, as I took in the sight of my smiling, vibrant, funny, intelligent, colour-treated friends, I felt nothing more than different than I was before.
I don't have a joke to crack or a cliche to share. No arghs or ughs or eeks.
It doesn't define me and yet it does.
My grandmother wore her crown of silver hair like a queen. The colour of her hair told a part of her story.
And now one strand begins a new chapter in mine.
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If you landed on this post thinking I was going to talk about Shades of Grey -- go here.
