I parted my hair a new way today.
I should not have done that.
Apparently, the way I was parting it before was hiding four grey hairs. I shouldn’t even call them grey. That’s being kind. They are white. Stark white. BLINDING white.
I knew one of them existed. He pokes out from time to time. I try to ignore him, hoping he’ll go away. But I was not aware of the other three. Let’s face it: This is not good. You can yank out one and pretend like it never happened… but four? Four long white-white-white hairs? That’s not a fluke. That’s a trend.
Is this Ryan’s fault? I think it must be. I didn’t have four snowy white hairs in Phase Two of Life, after all.
I’m sort of (totally) a hypocrite because Mike has been sporting grey hairs for several years now. I love it. I tell him he looks distinguished. I remind him that Anderson Cooper is hot.
But this makes me feel less than hot. In fact, it has wrecked any productivity for the day. Instead, I am consumed by the dilemma: to dye or not to dye.
It’s a big decision. Once you starting dyeing, there’s no going back. If I do it now, people may eventually forget about the way the light danced off my four white hairs. But you have to keep it up. If the white hair starts to grow out again, they will see through the facade. They will look at me with pity and whisper, “Wow, look at all that grey. And so young. Motherhood has really taken its toll on that one. Such a shame.“
Or, I could just own it. Rock it. Tell myself that my white strands look like festive tinsel, rather than tell-tale signs of aging. Who doesn’t love a show of year-round holiday spirit?