Going grey no big deal, honestly

First of all, I don’t dye my hair. Been there, done that, didn’t like it.
The inescapable truth about me and aging is that while I’ll continue the daily cardio and strength workouts to keep the sisters perky, the derriere firm, and the Buddha from bulging, my brunette locks with strands of grey are on their own.
Besides, thanks to my Irish ancestors who bequeathed me an underlying and stubborn shade of auburn, there never has been a whole lot I could do to make changes up top unless I went to extremes.
Blonde was never an option, but a “once upon a time” hair experiment with jet black left me convinced I looked fabulous— until I left the house. More than half-a-dozen people, whom I thought would laud my new hair colour, instead just told me I looked pale and “Did I feel all right?”
I felt fine until I went home to wash it out and realized I’d used permanent hair dye. By the time I was done bleaching and re-introducing a golden brown, the texture of my hair made me shiver all over.
Another dyeing nightmare happened with spray-on highlights touted as a sun bronzer. Because I figured more was better, the resulting “bright-red carrot head” is the reason I now read the instructions that come with everything I buy.
A subsequent dabble with burgundy locks quickly convinced me that—instead—wine was best served up from bottle to goblet rather than as a expression of my colourful persona.
Having accepted my hair’s natural progression to grey matter, I’m not suggesting that at times—as happened over the past weekend—my heart doesn’t skip a beat when I look in the mirror and see more age than I thought I had up there.
An incident with relentless and rogue teenage obstinance, wherein parents of long experience are believed to know nothing, ran the gamut in my neck of the woods and convinced me surely the seed had been planted for a few more off-white tufts on my head.
Later that day, a stint of contortion under a painting project in the basement brought me peace and quiet— until a call to the “loo” lent credence to my theory of advanced aging in parents of 16-year-olds.
My wide-eyed glance in the mirror at the sudden “Cruella de Ville” streak caused my contact lenses to fall out.
I fumbled in the bathroom sink to save them from the drain hole, poked them back in, and squinted at my grey-haired reflection until it was clear that what I saw was merely the result of an unintentional run-in with fresh, grey latex enamel and that I had not aged 20 years since the morning.
I tipped my head back and chuckled at Mother Nature’s feeble attempt to mess with my mind, then admired the painted tresses that might well become a reality some day.
When the time comes, be it a fact, I’ll be okay with that. Really. However, this attitude does not apply to the sporadic vigilante white hairs that have randomly appeared in twos and threes on my chin since I turned 40.
That’s not funny.

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