Writings: One White Hair

One white hair - not gray, but white that gleams silver when the light hits it -desiring to be recognized. Just one, no friends...yet, in a sea of black strands. This ratio of white to black has not changed in several years, but this one white hair has gone from black to brown to half-brown to golden to, now, stark white.

A white hair on a woman's head is not a commendable statement. Well, maybe it can imply motherhood or matriarchy, none of which I know anything about. And it worries me some that this hair is a harbinger for a sudden, unstoppable onslaught of age-related decrepitude. But aside from this bit of neurotic paranoia, I kind of like this white hair, so stubbornly and confidently established mid-way down the part line.

'Doesn't it ever fall out,' I wonder.

'Doesn't it ever change back to brown a little,' I hope.

Nope. It's set in its ways - sage and polished. I mean, it must be the oldest hair on my head; for all I know, it might have been there from the beginning.

I'm not one to yank out personal history, no matter how socially objectionable it may be to put it on display like I do. In my mind, this hair is life experience finally formed into pearl.