Gray. What a miserable color. When I think of gray, when I associate feelings with the color gray, I think of depression and sadness. I think of feeling lonely and even get the association of being non-committal; I mean come on, it’s not black, it’s not white. It’s just God damn gray.
As I stare into the unforgiving stranger of a mirror, I was left wondering how long this has been happening. How did I miss this at home? Getting ready for the beach, I barely fit my normally short hair into a ponytail, a sure sign a haircut is overdue. It was then, with my hair up, looking into this mirror that was not my own, under the bright lights of the bathroom, that I saw something peculiar in my hair. Was that dust? Was that powder? As I brushed away at my hair, gently at first, then more forcefully, and it became immediately and painfully apparent that my hair was not contaminated and covered in some whitish-grayish foreign matter, but this was in fact my hair’s …color.
Like a surgeon, armed with my trusty tweezers, I plucked each strand of gray from my head, analyzing it down to the root. Nine, that’s NINE, in all. Clustered there. Together. It looks contagious. I fear it’s going to spread. I found six more, scattered about, but I know this is it. The beginning of the end. So after 23 months (!) of not coloring or highlighting my hair, and enjoying my natural dark brown color, it’s time. Time to start covering my head in chemicals again. For how long this time? Forever I assume. This patch of horror was right in the middle of my head…what if there’s more in the back I can’t see?
So it’s decided. As I plucked the last of the gray hairs I could find from my hair and then moved on to the five o’clock shadow that is now my eyebrows, I let out a heavy sigh, and tried to decide when I could fit hair dying into my vacation. Should this be happening? I’m only 32!