I always wanted to dye my hair, but never could because it is so dark. The other girls can change their hair, and I'm stuck with this dark brown mess! And so, being who I am I came to a psychological resolution which has appeased me for a long while. I thought: well, if I go white then I'll dye it pink or red or blonde or something fun like that. Oh I can't wait til my hair loses its color naturally! (How refreshingly liberated I am!).
However, happily ensconced in this self-placation, what I failed to realize was that my "liberation" required as a prerequisite a wholehearted acceptance of the dark-as-night hair on my head, an acceptance which may have developed, like many things we accept do, into love. Like an arranged marriage. I didn't choose it, but after living with it for a while I have come to love it. I love my dark, dark hair.
And so, as life tends to do just when you get into a certain rhythm that you find pleasant enough, that rhythm changes. Little white bits are now emerging from my right temple and it's only really a matter of time before my hairs are all wiry and I am like Cher in Moonstruck, with the barber shop ladies begging me to let them take away those "nasty grays" (roll the r, they're Italian). I mean, once again we are encountered with that prolific question: What the hell I was thinking anyway??? Who wants to dye their hair pink!?! Or at all--what a hassle, what chains with which we bind ourselves! Ohhhh vanitas...
I can tell you what I'm thinking, how do I only inherit the bad genes from the family (mom started to go white in high school, I'm too young for this!). Yeah, blame the family.
Sigh. Oh well--easy come, easy go. I might as well just start eating jelly donuts all day if we're all going to the same place anyway. Right?