It seems like yesterday I was stealing street signs with my best friends in high school. Ultimately, we found that metal street signs weren’t easily dislodged without the right tools and ended up leaving one of our friends hanging over the top of a sign when a car came.
The best part of the night was the thrill of doing something we really shouldn’t be doing. We broke the rules. Or at least tried.
Now the wildest part of me is the gray hair invading my head. I have enough product on my hair to make a corn-field lay down flat, and yet those gray hairs stand straight up, cork-screwed and completely defiant. My gray hair is out stealing signs while the rest of my hair follows the rules.
If I’m quiet enough, I can hear my gray hair whispering, “I’m here to party, and you can’t stop me. Time to go wild and to hell with smooth bobs. We’re breaking out!”
As a small child, my mother talked about how my hair was totally out of control. Always sticking up and out, I awoke each morning looking like a young Phyllis Diller.
I also fought all efforts to have it brushed, since my mother had the gentleness of a Bobcat tractor when pulling through the rats in my hair.
But I loved my childhood, and now I think my hair stood on end with sheer delight at the prospect of each day. To support this premise, my hair is now only out-of-control at the beach – when it is having its most fun.
So I believe the gray hair is declaring a party. I think it’s letting me know there are fun days ahead.
I will continue to foil my hair, so don’t mistake this message as my personal acceptance of all things gray. But even the foils don’t hold the gray down. Mixed in with some light, medium and dark blond, it escapes the fold anyway.