So, this morning, as I was doing my makeup, I noticed a glint of white from my head. “Oh,” thought I, “I must have a few highlights left from the summer. Or the sun’s hit my hair just right. Pretty little blonde hair in my otherwise brunette head! How sweet you look as you curve behind my ear.”
And then I took a closer look.
Egads. It’s white. And coarse. And in the front of my head! It’s been there so long without me noticing, that the entire strand is white, with one patch of my usual brown in the middle of it.
What the hell? I’m only 21! That’s too young for gray hair.
So, emergency phone call to my parents before they left for work.
The phone rings.
Mom: Hello?
Me: Hi, Mom? Um, when did you find your first gray hair?
Mom: Oh, dear. Laughter. I didn’t find any until I was in my thirties, but your dad’s had gray hair since I met him.
Me: Grits teeth. How long has that been?
Mom: When he was nineteen, so, let’s see that’s . . . about 25 years now.
Argh. Dammit. Why couldn’t they have told me this earlier? I always assumed I’d take after my Grandma Joanne, who’s 70 and only has a handful of gray hairs, which she starting discovering in her forties. We have the same hair color, hair texture, eye color . . . it was fated. I was supposed to take after Grandma! Not Dad. I have no room for gray nosehair in my life.
I’m not entirely convinced that this hair didn’t spring up over night, due to the incredibly stupid sentence I wrote in a job application yesterday. Writing about working on the family farm for every summer since I was twelve: “It was hard and hot and I did it for free.” Yes, thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I am that clueless. I assure you, it was not a chicken ranch.
On the bright side, Dad’s 45 in a couple weeks and he still has mostly black hair, with only a few sprinklings of gray. His beard’s going salt and pepper, but I don’t have one of those, so I’m not too concerned about that. As long as this single white hair on my head isn’t a harbinger of back hair to come, I might make it through the week.