Grey Matter

I kid you not, the day I moved into this new house I noticed a plethora of grey hairs on the top of my head. I mean, I've had a few here and there for a while now--when I've see one of those boogers I've just plucked it right out with the tweezers. Gone, no evidence. But the morning I woke up here and looked in the mirror--BAM!, as Emeril would say. Not just a grey hair or two, but enough that would quality as what I would call a sprig. When in the world did one wiley hair turn into a sprig of many?? And I mean, these suckers were pretty long, so I don't know how they escaped my ever-roving eye. I knew my whole move was a bit of a hair-raising experience, what with selling in 11 days and not having settled on a new home yet--but that was ridiculous.

But you know, I have decided I'm leaving those babies. Quite honestly, I think grey hair can be really pretty. At one point in my rock and roll past I actually paid money to have grey hair extension streaks put in. I saw a woman at the Mac counter not long ago with the most beautiful silvery-grey hair I'd ever seen, covering her entire head. It was all I could do not to sigh, "ooooh, pretty" and reach out to touch it. I have decided that I am indeed going to grow old gracefully and proudly sport my greys. (unless of course I see one of those crazy curly ones that resemble a more private area of hair...now THOSE have to go...!) I've always loved dichotomy in fashion--you know, the whole dress with the combat boot thing, or Anne Klein pink suede loafers with a black ripped up shirt--so why not contrast my old greys with a young skull T? It works for me. My way of looking 'old' in the face and saying "F You!" and then, "I guess we're in this together...."

At least that's how I feel today. Of course when one of my kids' friends calls me 'that old lady' or something I may be hitting the bottle of Clairol before you can say Elvis is dead.