Tuesday, April 15, 2014
attack of the grays.
Among other hateful things, 2014 has been dubbed the Attack of the Grays. In 2007, the year we were married, my husband found great joy in finding my first gray hair. I had seen an occasional gray strand from time to time in the years following, but it was nothing that couldn't be solved by a quick pluck. Last year I found a few more, and even squealed when my hairdresser found one, insisting she pull it out immediately.
In recent months, however, I had been spotting strand after strand, and was beginning to take notice. I had some old highlights that they were previously camouflaged by, completely unnoticeable to the average Joe. But add a few months time passed and a couple inches of growth to my neglected highlights, I couldn't ignore the light-colored random strands that start from the top of my head, knowing good and well that my days of natural blonde were long gone. I think it's the start of a new shade taking up residency on top of my head. And God bless those Engle women, I've inherited the coarse, wavy, and wiry grays.
It really sank in last night while having my hair colored when my hairdresser - completely unprovoked - said, "I tried to get as much of the gray as I could." Oh? Umm, yep. Thanks.
Aging has never been something I've feared. While slightly shocking for my twenties, I've never really detested the gray strands. I've known and looked up to so many women that I truly believe their age, and thus life experiences and wisdom that come with it, has been an integral part of women I've admired. And really, what isn't beautiful about a silver-haired woman whose eyes sparkle with her smile? Or a woman's whose age is marked by crows feet, worry lines, laugh lines, and age spots, but whose heart is one of selfless love, humility, and grace? I have known women who radiate beauty. A kind of beauty that skin creams, face lifts, and hair dye couldn't touch.
I found some gray hairs this evening while looking in the mirror, inspecting my recent partial low-lights. I found some new wrinkles, too. And I smiled. Because there's a part of me that welcomes them both, like some sort of rite of passage. I'm not in a hurry to grow old. But I'm not afraid to do so, either.