The last things I do before I go to bed at night include:
- worry that I'm becoming senile. (i.e. the most recent debacle where I lost my apartment key, borrowed Jason's key to check in the storage closet, and promptly locked HIS in the storage closet. Those were our only two keys.) (I may have Alzheimers, but at least I don't have Alzheimers.)
- trail off on long tangents. Where was I?
- Oh yesss, things I do before bed: take pills for my hip injury. (Not pain pills, chillax.) (Wait, Chillax sounds like some sort of anti-anxiety medication, doesn't it?)
- slather on the anti-wrinkle cream (I'm a vain little old lady.)
- consider seeing a doctor about my bladder issues. I wish I were kidding.
- (as you can imagine, at this point Jason's all, "Hubba hubba, baby.")
- and check on my beard.
|Once you consider my genetics, it's not so surprising. Meet the Papa Bear.|
Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a teeeeny little bit. It's only one (although very manly) hair under my jaw, but I like to call it my beard to make the lonely little straggler feel like it has a place in the world. (Me constantly yanking it out probably contradicts this, but no one's pointed that out to it yet.)
So the last time I went to remove it, I could feel it with my hand, but I couldn't see it in the mirror like usual. When I finally tweezed it out, I understood why. IT HAD TURNED GRAY. I could see the exact point at which it had given up on melanin, too-- the last 25% of it was dark, and the rest of it was a bright, shiny silver. I can now tell my wee grandbabies that the first gray hair I ever got was my entire beard, all at once.
I told Jason that I'm thinking of growing it out, just to see how long it gets. I assured him that since it's silver, people probably won't notice it. At least until someone asks me a philosophical question & I have to pause, raise an eyebrow in deep thought, and slowly stroke my 8-inch silver strand thoughtfully between my thumb and index finger. Oh, the wisdom this shall impart.