This is not supposed to happen. Not now. Not while I am still young, supple and filled with undeniable exuberance. But there it was. Unmistakable. Taunting me. Unyielding. Sticking out from the top of my head like some kind of RoboCop whose mission it was to take the rest of my hair hostage. I felt vexed by this intruder. This gray, unruly strand of hair.
Yes, I know that there are products that can take care of pesky little problems like this but I didn’t think I would have to entertain the thought until, well, my senior years. But definitely not now, while I still had some pep in my step and could still shake what my momma gave me. But there it was, waving at me from my rearview mirror, as I drove down my miracle mile. Some miracle. Pfft! All desire to go shopping for something pretty just deserted me. Why go shopping, I thought, if I already had one foot in the grave. So, fine, I guess you could say I was way over the top here but I’m Latina. I feel things passionately and ‘the Hubster’ was going to get an ear full of my angst whether he wanted it or not.
After crying for an hour that I was ancient, decrepit and should now be referred to as “The Crypt Keeper”, ‘the Hubster’ tried to comfort me by telling me that I was just aging like fine wine and the best was yet to come. I looked at him as though he were daft. Really Dr. Phil? And you thought that using words like aging and fine in the same sentence were going to get you a “Barry White” kind of night? Well think again smooth talker because that cliché earned you a trip to the dog house without your milk bones.
Seriously!! How could he not understand the significance of a gray hair? I might as well have been carrying a flashing bill board saying, “Look at me. My prime years are over.” Melodramatic? Perhaps. But at the time, I was in break down mode and the pity party was in full swing. Although I feel very comfortable in my own skin, I wasn’t ready to do the AARP shuffle. I wasn’t ready to start playing canasta or wearing hoses that would help the circulation. I still had plenty of life left in these hips and I refused to let a little thing like a gray hair snuff out my zeal.
And to prove it, I went home and took out my oldie but goodie CD collection (I know, I know, we’ve gone digital) and tried to dance like it was 1999. I bounced, wiggled and slid across my living room floor as though I were in a club. I tried a little old school and got down when I should have stayed up. Moves that used to feel natural just felt as though I were imitating my grandmother. Soul train was just old train and my caboose was just plain loose.
‘The Hubster’, transfixed by my performance in the living room, stared at me as though he were about to place a call to the mental house and have me fitted with one of their “special” outfits. He couldn’t believe I was behaving this way and at this point he was almost convinced that I was one burger short of a happy meal. “How can one gray hair drive you to such distraction”, he asked? I gingerly limped over to the love seat, hoping that I still had all of my bodily pieces intact, and slowly sat down. I looked at him with sadness and said, “This is where you trade me in for a fresh, newer model.” He walked over to where I was sitting, sat down next to me and said, “And what, miss these free shows that you put on for my benefit? Never! These young girls’s have nothing on you, mamacita.”
Well, well, look who’s getting lucky tonight. Heh!