I found my first gray hair yesterday.
There it was, shining out in radiant silver on my brush, immediately obvious among its dark siblings and the near-black bristles.
It was 21 inches long, and according to Robert, it came from right above my left eye.
I was incredulous. How could I have not seen it for the years it had been growing there, so near my face? How had I not seen it while braiding my hair one morning? How could Robert have only noticed it last week? How could he have NOT told me about it, leaving me to be blindsided by it getting shed onto my brush?
I’m not sure why– I wasn’t really sad or scared or feeling another negative emotion– but it happened.
Honestly, I’ve been looking forward to my hair turning so that I can dye it without having to bleach it first. I’ve been hoping I would be one of those people who grays in dramatic stripes at the temples, for maximum badassery.
But I suppose it was another reminder of my failure to force my life to conform to the plan. The first indication that I might run out of time to buy that farm, build that house, learn to use my spinning wheel, find purpose for all the great things in my upcycling.
There’s plenty of time yet. I’m not even 30 yet. But though the days are long and practically innumerable, the years are short and oh-so-finite.
This is a season of transitions. The election is coming, this is our last year of “unofficial” homeschooling before Númenor has to be registered with the state, today is the first day of autumn, next week is the start of Robert’s school year, and I’m aging.
Well, I mean, we’re all aging. Everyone and everything is aging. Hell, the universe itself is aging. But you know what I mean.
It’s a little bittersweet, no matter the benefits that might come along with it, this dance of out-with-the-old-and-in-with-the-new that we do each autumn equinox. I love the bustle of harvest and holiday preparations, canning the applesauce, snuggling in bed in the mornings, mulching the raised beds, adding new insulation to stuff the cracks, the dance of the hand-me-downs with the smalls, the creeping nightly frost, boiling down the salt, cinnamon and leaf mold in the air. But I’m going to miss the feeling of summer sun on my bare feet, spending the warm evenings at the drive-in, taking my knitting out to the backyard and letting the breeze play with my hair, fresh berries and sun-ripened tomatoes, the smell of warm earth and cedar sap.
I guess the bigger transitions are like that, too. You look forward to the new things, but leaving the old ones behind means sharp reminders of how good they were.
I never really enjoyed being young. Being young, you want so badly to be older so you’ll be taken seriously, so you can have your independence, so your life can really begin. But now I’m seeing it as a time of beautiful potential– you could be or do anything with your life, when it’s all stretched out in front of you like that, but by the time you’re older, you’ve already made choices and spent time and set yourself on a path.
To grow up will be a very great adventure.
Especially once I have enough gray hair for it to show up when dyed purple.