Using the word silver to describe the thin line extending from my crown is probably more symbolic of, as Monty Python would say, my struggle against reality than my descriptive powers. It’s really more of a shiny grey. And, while it has been mostly solitary for the last few years, it manages to drive me to distraction.
It won’t be plucked – I’ve tried. It doesn’t break off with the mass of brown hair that ends up in the trap after every shower. Every effort to rout this symbol of my impending maturity only seems to make it stronger.
For most of my adult life I had to struggle to remember what my real hair color was. In a span of a decade it was literally every color of the rainbow, so having thin grey line reflect a color in nature shouldn’t cause this much consternation. The irony is, that for someone who’s never been shy with the dye, for some reason I can’t bring myself to color it now.
Lately, it seems to be recruiting new members to its team, but I’m starting, not just to get used to the invaders but also to recognize that they are weaving a tale of my life. There’s one for the firstborn’s first visit to the emergency room. There’s another for the Big Guy’s week in intensive care. There were more than a few for the years we were choosing between bills and groceries, but they didn’t take a strong enough hold to stay.
The thin grey lines that survive, however, are determined to grow with me. They are not friends. But they are reminders that the years and events that spawn them might actually be making me stronger, not older.