Upon Silver Hair

I've accepted, made peace, and even decided to enjoy "getting older," and I've discovered that contrary to popular media, ageing isn't all that bad. While it's weird to think of myself as thirty, an age portrayed as the last gasp of breath before the grave, I don't feel very different.

I've accepted that my age has nothing to do with what I can accomplish.

I'm rejoicing in the wisdom that has come with my years of experience.

I've rejected the social expectations and stigma on persons of my size, personality, preferences, and enjoy loving myself as I am. (Because, let's face it, I'm pretty cool.)

While I'm disappointed that my life doesn't look like I thought it would when I was thirty (no blonde children running around a well-kept house and lawn with a handsome husband in the background), I would not trade what I do have; dear, tried-and-true friends, three kitties, mission trips, students that adore me, time for art and reading, baking and gaming, for any bobble-headed, soap-bubble dreams from my sixteen-year-old self, bless her heart.

However, despite my obvious well-adjusted attitude toward ageing (such a word in our culture!), I simply cannot seem to cope with one aspect:

My silver hairs.

Aside from the first one, which my friend Caleb noticed first, plucked out, and shoved under my nose saying, "Look at that!" (thank you), no one except myself and my hair stylist (i.e. cutter of hairs) has noticed them.

This is understandable, as there are only a few of them (6 or 10), and they all grow together in one streak on the right side of my head. Usually, they're covered over by the rest of my hair, but every once in awhile, they decide to gleam in the bathroom mirror, and remind me of their existence.

And it bothers me. Every time.

I can't seem to reconcile myself to these few silver hairs sprouting from my head - gratefully, they ARE silver, instead of gray or white, so I can make some pretense at pretending they are "cool," or possibly the early sign of a comic-book, super-power mutation.

This morning I woke up, and somehow they had conspired with the rest of my head to part my hair while I slept so it centered around them, and they stared back at me from the mirror like an unwanted halo.

I'm not certain why they are so hard for me to accept. Perhaps because every woman I know (my mother and paternal grandmother excepted) dyes their hair. Even men no longer allow their heads to grow hoary with age.

Perhaps because gray hairs are one of the few typical evidences that I'm ageing. I'm blessed with young-looking genes on my father's side (my great-grandfather actually convinced his wife he was 10 years younger than he was. She did not discover his duplicity until his death). While I'm no longer mistaken as a high school student, most people still ask me how college is going, even though I graduated in 2006!

Actually, this can be rather frustrating, as people can find it difficult to take me seriously since I must be so much younger than them. Ironically, I am now nearly in the same age bracket as many of the parents I work with.

I think I will stop cringing when I see those silver hairs. Instead, I will welcome them as a sign of my adulthood, maturity and wisdom. I've worked hard for this age, and I like myself. I will allow that silver streak to remind me of all the struggles I've been through to get where I am.

They're not a sign of ageing. No.

They are, indeed, a badge of honor. Silver threads that lead from my past, and promise victories for the future!