![]() "Actually," she said after further moments of deepest scrutiny, "it's purple. "Your hair," she said, pointing her small finger up at me. At a playground where my 9-year-old son still likes to monkey around, a little girl with hair the color of corn silk came walking toward me, her eyes fixed with a scholar's attention on my head. ![]() I began the ritual of coloring-at home, over the sink, slippery squeeze bottle, dark brown goo, tiny packet of cerulean blue cream rinse, and flimsy plastic gloves.Ī decade later-single, head of household, not even dating-something happened that made me decide to stop. For the first time, someone, a young man, called me ma'am. The strands had a different texture they went every which way, gaining unruly ground over my tamer chestnut hair. Who knows where it landed?īy my mid-thirties-married, divorced, remarried, about to separate, a mother-the gray had become a spooky reality. I plucked it, twirled it around in the garish fluorescent light of my dorm room, inspecting its alien otherness, then threw it away. I didn't mind finding the silvery gray strand. ![]() My first gray hair appeared when I was 23 years old, in graduate school, busy, restless, dating around. ![]()
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