The Great Battle of The Grays

So my birthday is quickly approaching which kinda stinks. I’m not yet sure why it stinks, it just does. I suppose it’s a good time to write about one of the most feared birthday consequences, a scourge many of you are experiencing yourselves.  I call my story The Great Battle of The Grays.  And it all happened on my head, or so I thought… 

It was just after the birth of my second daughter Sadie, when I noticed the manifestation of an army in its infancy.  They were approximately three inches long and void of all pigmentation.  The Grays.  I used to pluck the little traitors in a vain attempt to repress a full revolt of The Grays.  I naively believed I was coming out ahead until I started sporting hairless patches resembling the leftovers of some sort of dermatologic parasite. The bald spots were proof that gray hairs are sign of old age, not of wisdom. 

I abandoned plucking because the determined little troops inevitably grew back – wild and unruly.  And they brought reinforcements. 

After my plucking strategy failed miserably, I tried a new tactic.  My secret weapon:  the black Sharpie marker.  Starting with the most obvious offenders, I attacked each strand with a blast of permanent ink.  As the number of Grays grew, so did the noxious fumes.  I was getting high.  Some call it ‘huffing’, I call it ‘getting ready for work’.  Whatever you choose to call it, I got pulled over for driving while under the influence…of Sharpie fumage.  (Not really, I got pulled over for speeding.  I have an overactive imagination.)         

Frightened at the prospect of 28 days in court-mandated Sharpies Anonymous, I decided my campaign against The Grays would have to come to an end.  It was time to make peace with The Grays.  I could not best them.  Attempting to do so had been in vain, frustrating and sometimes hazardous to my health (not to mention my less-than-perfect driving record).   

Why was it so important for me to annihilate The Grays?  What was the real enemy?  What was I trying (and failing) to fight?  Aging?  Maybe.  Funny thing is, I’m ok with aging.  Many of my most favorite people are “old”.  It happens to the best of us and it sure beats the alternative. 

I think I saw a bamboo-framed proverb in Chinese Guy’s shop that said “Men grow old, pearls grow yellow; there is no cure for it.”  Just like I don’t see the need to lose mole fat, I don’t see the need to cure aging.  There is nothing wrong with it.  If there’s nothing wrong with aging, there must be nothing wrong with the evidence of aging…The Grays.  

One morning, after a productive session of blow drying, The Grays and I came to an understanding.  The hostilities were over; we were at peace.  I was at peace with aging and the human experience.  I left The Grays alone (buried my Sharpie, so to speak) and they grew back – long, pearly, and not so unruly.  I learned to accept that the silvery wisps might even be beautiful.

As part of the armistice, The Grays allowed me to name them after whoever had been giving me grief.  The collective Grays had become individuals —personalized and endearing.  They were not so much enemies to defeat, but bright monuments to life experiences. 

(As a side note, the process of naming The Grays is a fascinating one.  The name depends on the duration and severity of the grief given.  Understanding the biology behind hair growth [human hair grows at a rate of about ½ inch every month] proved extremely important in the naming process.  I have a Gray individual here that is 16 ¾ inches long.  Given rate of hair growth and length of the strand, I will most like likely name this one ‘Daniel’.) 

Today, I wear an entire band of silver strands proudly.  They are my thin little ribbons of honor, symbolic of hard days survived and tough times conquered.  Battles won more often than lost.  

It comes down to this.  I’ve learned aging doesn’t happen on your head – it happens in your head.  

Nobody grows old by achieving a certain number of years.  We grow old by surrendering our passion.  Years will steal the pigmentation from our hair, but deserting our love for life will steal our souls.  Finding the source of our passion and using it to bless the lives of those we love – that is our best offence in defeating old age. 

So now what do I do with the gross of Sharpie markers sitting in my bathroom closet??