I like my gray hairs – I really do.
At first I was a bit perturbed about how thick (in quantity and diameter) they were springing up. Then I took a picture of the top of my head (for a blog about no-pooh . . . . you had to be there), anyhow, I was horrified by the amount of grays merrily ambushing the brunettes!
I have this odd love/hate relationship with my hair – I’ve shaved it off in a frenzy of over-heating, I’ve cut it myself for years, sometimes very well, but sometimes hideously!
Recently I’ve let it grow long again, my preferred style. Short, for me, is too much work and I look like a boy. Noel didn’t believe me when I told him this, then I shaved it off and he looked very sheepish and said, ‘oh, yeah, I see what you mean’. Great!
My hair is long now, the new springy grays give the rest of the mop a rather lively bounce. My ‘thin but lots of it’ hair (statements from hairdressers eons ago), is now lively.
More importantly, I’ve earned every single one of those hairs. There’s the, ‘almost lost the boat in Gambiers,’ gray; the, ‘we’re sinking,’ gray, there’s even the ‘Noel’ gray (just a baby one 😉 )
Each strand tells a story, my hair is part of me. Our journey is etched on our skin and also, I find, in my hair.