“You have some gray hair.”

Who?

Me?!

Where!

That’s just ridiculous.  I’m only 32.  I act like I’m 27… on a good day.

I tried to get to a mirror immediately.  Not out of horror, more out of curiosity. Was it true?  It must just be a very blonde hair.

So there I was; on my porch with a hand mirror, standing in the sun. I thought it would be best to do my gray hunting in full, natural light. I didn't doubt my friend, I just had to see it for myself.

Friday, in the sun, with my cutesy pink mirror, in a punk rock shirt, and camo cut-offs, I saw my first gray hairs.

It’s weird. This is a day I have realized was coming, and have often wondered how I was going to react. I didn’t think it would come this soon, that’s for sure. But there they are. I pulled one out just to look at it really close. Yup, that is definitely gray.

As a child I had the most beautiful blonde hair. Gold is the only word to accurately describe the color. By the time I was 12 it had darkened to a horrible shade of dishwater blonde. It lost all the glow, and was now dingy, dull. I hated it. So I started putting lemon juice in my hair then zapped it with the hairdryer. Heat and lemon juice lightens hair color slightly. This method satisfied me for a few years. My parents would not let me use hair dye until I was 18. So I would mix strawberry Kool-Aid powder with just a little water. A very concentrated bitter mix; it would stain my skin more than my hair, but with some practice, I had perfected a nice subtle strawberry blonde.

At eighteen, I was finally free of my sorrowful shade. It went bright red. Orphan Annie. Over the years I have been every color. Every color. I have fried my hair only once. Turns out you can push platinum blonde too far. Over the last fourteen years of dye, I have had moments of “I wonder what my natural color is?” I’ll let it go for a few months so I can check the roots. That is where I was today. My one and a half inch dark roots, as usual, didn’t impress me. But those grays…..

I don’t lie about my age.  Sure, I’m flattered when I get carded in a bar, or someone assumes I’m the same age as my 20-something friends.   I’ve never been one to get scared of getting older.  So why did the gray throw me off?  Why did I come home and dye my hair again?   Why can’t I stop thinking about it?  I have been pondering this newest discovery for the last eight hours.

Is this a girl thing?  I love gray hair on guys.  Silver foxes.  Yum.  I often say when I’m old I want long grey braids.  Am I afraid of looking old now?  I don’t feel old, so I know I don’t want to look old.   Not that there is anything bad about being old, I just want to look how I feel.  And shouldn’t I just let this hair dyeing thing go?  Why do I just keep dousing my head with chemicals?  Shouldn’t I go with natural; don’t they say it’s more beautiful? 

Or, is it that a person looks the most beautiful when they feel beautiful.  My fake color makes me feel beautiful.  I have always told myself I would stop dyeing it, when my natural color changes to something I like.   Well, today, I found out it is changing….

Is gray my out?!  Should I prove young people can be gray and hot?!

This could be the answer.  I’m not afraid of the gray… I’m afraid of my dingy blonde.  It’s just listless and grubby; not me.  But the grays are interesting.  I mean maybe I did earn them.   I may not be wise, but I am no fool.  Or, maybe I am wise, just not in the classic way. I have lived a great life so far; ups, downs, hard times, great times, heart breaks, joy.  Maybe I should be proud of those hairs.  Maybe I should find a hair dye that does not cover the grays.  That could be my answer; Half natural, all stunning.