A monumental thing happened the other day while I was attending a professional development institute.
It wasn’t the institute itself, although it was amazeballs in making me think about the whole concept of consequences/punishment in schools. (Please note I am super-excited to use the word amazeballs after hearing it on Masterchef the other night.)
Nope. The monumental thing happened in the washroom.
No, no. Nothing like that. Although I am SURE it will soon be a topic of conversation, given the penchant of older people to talk about bowel movements or urinary incontinence.
Instead, I had that moment: the finding of the first grey hair.
Yup. I looked in the mirror and saw it standing up at attention.
It was a frail hair, old and thick and broken. Maybe at one point it had been a whole hair, but it had become only about two inches long and jagged. The rest must have committed suicide in my hairbrush.
I am going into my fourth decade of existence on this earth and this is the first grey hair I have spotted on my head. I’d finally become accustomed to seeing one sprouting defiantly from a mole on my neck (before being harvested by my handy-dandy tweezers).
Needless to say, I plucked this wayward strand from my head before I emerged from the washroom.
Given that I have never really grown up one hundred percent, I am shocked to find evidence I might be growing older. I still feel like a teeny-bopper, although I try to act my age and blend with the adults.
This week, I applied sparkling white eyeshadow and had to swipe it off because I looked like a fourteen-year-old trying to look like a fairy.
Time to be more judicious with the sparkles.
It’s not that I don’t feel endowed with a sense of wisdom that only comes with age (and the resulting fear that I will never know everything or even a slice of what the universe has to offer).
It’s just that it’s grey hair. And it’s on me.
It’s not that I’m against dyeing my hair. After being red, blondish, many shades of brown, and that unfortunate accidental burgundy black, I’m fairly handy with the dye bottle.
And it’s not that I’m anti-grey hair. Most people look fine with it. Some even look better than they ever did.
But it’s different when it’s me.
I guess tonight it’s time to start measuring my skin to see how far gravity is taking it southward. (I’d start counting wrinkles, but I got my first ones in Grade 6 when I thought squinting to see the blackboard from the back row was preferable to getting glasses.)
You heard it here.
After elementary school, it’s all downhill.