White.
And not just one - there were two stark white hairs standing proudly against my reddish brunette hair, like some sort of tribute to the youth I once had.
Two years away from turning 30, and my first grandma hairs are popping up. Matt cracked up and gave me the whole, "Now who's old?" You know, since he's been quickly graying for the last 5 years. He can just throw a hat on and cover it up, though - I'm going to look like my grandma soon.
Not that my grandma wasn't a gorgeous older lady, but as long as I knew her, she was a grandma. I remember her white hair, soft wrinkles, and glasses. I don't remember a fun lady who got down and colored with me and played hopscotch, but a winded grandmother who asked me to help her up the stairs. That's going to be me any day now.
In true denial fashion, I called my sister hoping she'd give a much-needed pep talk about how it isn't that bad, how it's only two hairs, it probably just looked blonde... those kind of things.
Nope.
As soon as I uttered the words, "first gray hair," I was met with a crazy cackling and a "Welcome to the club." Well, crap. I hope there's some cookies.
To make it even worse, when I discovered the Hair We Do Not Name, we were on our way to the animal shelter to adopt a kitty. I have begun my descent into crazy old cat lady...
I'd always pictured my older self as one of those batty older women with at least 4 cats weaving in between her legs as she cuts out cookies to throw in the oven. Gray hair in a bun, an extra twenty pounds around her midsection, wearing a sweet apron and glasses. I guess I wasn't specific on an age, though; I'd just assumed that older me was at least 60, not 28. Sigh.
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