My mom was helping me take out the twists in my hair this morning, in preparation for my trip to the hairdresser later in the afternoon.
As we were talking and she was helping comb out one side of my head, she suddenly said, “Oh, look – you have a golden hair.”
“Golden hair?” I said, wrinkling my nose. “What are you talking about?”
You know when you have that nanosecond where you think you have a clue as to where the conversation is headed, only to be brushed aside and forgotten just as quickly? Well, I thought, either my mom is saying I have a blond hair or a grey one. Or maybe just a different colour.
Didn’t matter, because half a second later, she yanked out the hair in question and gave it to me.
At first, I said, “Nah. This looks like a piece of lint.” Then I had another good second to look at the wavy, curly strand in question.
Lint it was not. It was white. White, white, white.
“No,” I said. “A gray hair, already? This is not good.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” my mom said. “Your brother has a couple of them, too.”
“No it’s not,” I said. “And you pulled it out. Don’t you know that for every hair you pull out, two grow back in its place?”
My mom just poo-pooed it. But maybe this is just the start. Today it’s one strand. Tomorrow, it’s, like, a whole patch. My dark, undyed hair is one of the few physical things I pride myself on (even if the stuff I comb IS the dead stuff).
Sure, I want one of those sophisticated white streaks, but when I’m, like, 50. Not NOW.