Getting my hair done. I love my lady. She’s family. I can’t keep the grays away. She’s my gray slaying knight in shining (I’m not sure what color her hair is right now) sass and girlishness honor. I am curious about the extent of my grayness. I think it’s pretty bad. And I want to be self possessed enough to embrace the aging process. But yeah, no.
I do know the grays mark the passing of time. One for every time around the sun? I’m guessing given the amount of gray the ratio is much higher. My SIL calls the grays ‘sparkles’. That’s a little too happy a term for me. They are battle marks of a life lived sometimes happy, sometimes frantic, sometimes hysterical, sometimes sad, often hopeful, occasionally angry, no small amount lonely. None of these peaks and valleys are different than most lives lived today. They are only peculiar to me with my details coloring the story line.
The grays are me, my life in film, just like the stacks of picture albums around my home, nostalgia clutter in my closets, memories that I try to keep alive. The grays remind me how lucky I am and how often I forget that to lament over bullshit. They are the nagging mother, well-intentioned, though very annoying. I color them away, but I don’t ever forget their purpose.