The Old Gray Mare

I hit the snooze button six times before I finally dragged myself out of bed this morning, cussing and rubbing my eyes. One pounding shower and a quick kiss of the toothbrush later, and I'm standing before the mirror, wondering why my breasts suddenly seem less excited than I am about facing the upcoming day.

That's when it caught my eye. One shining white streak among a field of crimson.

My first gray hair.

At least, the first one I've noticed. I plucked at my scalp, miffed. 'How is this possible?' I thought to myself. At my age?

I took a closer look. Deep, dark blue shades the inside corners of my eyes, and fine creases have developed there, and around my mouth.

Then I remembered my grandmother admonishing to my mother, "Don't go pullin' at thim gray har. You'll git three in 'er place." This from the woman who insists coffee tastes better with a little bourbon, who has to retrieve her teeth from her purse every time we want to take a family photo.

Now, I'm not buying into that whole wive's tale about hydra-style grays that split into themselves when they're severed, but why tempt fate, right?

Anyway, I've earned the gray. You don't have the kind of year I just had and come out completely unscathed. I guess I'll keep it.

Maybe I'll name it Harry.