The March Of Time

I discovered something rather alarming the other day. The entire front of my hair, under the bangs I still cling to, has gone completely white. I'm not talking faded remnants of the original red here, I'm talking driven snow, virginal wedding dress, movie star teeth WHITE. When and how did this happen? This is not a couple random pluckable hairs, either. Plucking this mass would mean a freakishly large bald spot right there in the front for God and everyone to see.
I think I have been weathering the whole becoming a woman of a certain age with pretty good grace, I've even embraced some aspects of it. I like not feeling the need to put on a faceful of makeup every time I leave the house (although mascara remains necessary). I enjoy the experience of being comfortable enough to sit alone in a restaurant with a book and not feel weird or spotlighted. I prefer going to a bar to visit and catch up with my friends as oppposed to checking out the local produce and being checked out in return. I LOVE not trying to make everyone like me and realizing that I'm pretty damn great without working so hard. I've even accepted my newly etched laugh lines as visible signs of a life lived with plenty of joy in it. The hair thing is just going a touch too far.
I now have a choice to make, do I fight and finally let my hairdresser dye my hair? Do I attempt this task on my own? Should I let her bleach out the entire region and have a fascinating white streak? Or do I simply resign myself to the slow natural process of graying? I think I'm more at ease with the idea of going completely white as opposed to the slow death of the red. My aunt Carol went gray rather early and has the most glorious head of white now...THAT'S what I'd rather do than fade away. I suppose I'll end up as one of those eighty year old women with the bright red hair and the slash of magenta lipstick that everyone loves but hesitates to point out the obvious flaw in her plan.
I suppose we all have our THING. I have a friend that refuses to quit shopping in the juniors department. It's great that you still fit in those sizes, but your teenaged daughter is starting to get annoyed that you're buying the same clothes as she is. Another HATES the majority of music on the radio right now but insists on playing it loud in an attempt to connect with the younger set. A third friend (and this is the weird one) refuses to read or buy any of what she calls the 'matronly magazines' (Better Homes And Gardens, Woman's Day, you know the type) because that's a sure sign of lost youth. I just read them for the recipes, I SWEAR!

We're all getting there and I know there's really no use in fighting it too hard. After all, battle is a bit unseemly for a woman of a certain age.