I found my first grey hair. Like a fat-toothed comb my fingers parted hairs until I could pluck it free, be sure it wasn’t paint or light or my eyes playing tricks in the sterile fluorescence of the bathroom. But the hair was silvered pale, delicate as thread, and I sealed it reverently in a plastic container to show my husband when he came home. He wasn’t as convinced as me, though my evidence of age is very little when compared with his salt and peppering beard.
“It looks white.”
“Maybe I’ll go white instead of grey.”
That could be pretty bitchin’, to have a few Rogue years between my sorry youth and sure to be sorrier middle age. That’s more of a dream, I think, than thinking that one won’t sprout in time one hundred.
Before I threw it out I twirled it once, twice, three times around my finger, less than I would have been able to after a recent hair cut. I’m nearing the end of my twenties, but for all I regret at their passing I have more to look forward to, more ahead than I have behind. A writing professor I had as an undergraduate, a man I admired greatly and for shame have yet to read, mused to me that I might have only one really good story in me as a young person, and that perhaps I had already told it. But more would come, later. He was of the opinion that most people were not worth reading until they were in their thirties, even if they’d been writing for years. I didn’t balk at the idea at the time and I don’t now, either, because I know that I always have more work to do. I can only hope to be given the time to do it.
And with NaNoWriMo but a few days away, the many kicks in the pants I need to keep from squandering my last year as a twenty-something on World of Warcraft.