Hair

My hair is at war with itself. Tiny white wires are appearing all over my head, pushing aside the soft red hairs and grabbing all the attention for themselves. Right now, the soft reds outnumber the wiry whites, but it’s only a matter of time before the white ones win. And then, my head will be full of white antennae, some curling at their beginnings and stubbornly straightening out at their ends—others bending at sharp angles, refusing to be tamed by mousse, spray, gel, or cream. Each one acts as a neon sign flashing embarrassing announcements like, WOW SHE’S OLD! LOOK AT THE LINES AROUND HER EYES! or YIKES—SUN DAMAGED SKIN!

I’m hoping that the battle will last a while longer. I found my first white hair on my 29th birthday, and promptly plucked it out. As the years progressed, I began to realize that this was not a practical or attractive solution. Luckily, I have enough blonde streaks in my hair to mask the white strands for now, but their rebellious refusal to bend to the will of my brush leaves me realizing that in spite of technological advances in make-up and skin care, there is no stopping the march of time.

The hair on my head is not nearly as perplexing to me as the hair next to my mouth. This year, to celebrate my 40th birthday, my face decided to start growing hair next to the sides of my mouth. Luckily, it is an invisible blonde color, and it is baby-soft, so it’s easily concealed. But why is it here? What brought on its arrival? White hairs in my head, I understand. Stretch marks on my skin after having 3 babies, I understand. But this sudden, startling appearance of mouth fuzz perplexes me. What’s next? Chin hair at age 50? Ear hair at age 60?

I went to the salon this morning, and listened with rapt attention as the stylist praised my hair for its color and thickness. She said the white hair was completely unnoticeable. “It will be a long time before you have to worry about that,” she reassured me. OK, so maybe she was trying for a big tip, but I chose to believe her. I didn’t push my luck and ask her about my facial hair. Maybe the key to enjoying 40 is to see only what I want to see and deny what I don’t. A little bit of self-delusion and denial never hurt anyone, did it? Of course not. How could it?