The past few weeks I’ve not been able to keep up with the greys. I was plucking them for a good long while but now they are everywhere. Witchy, thick, kinked-up ones and frail, wispy ones you barely notice unless the light hits them the right way.
I can’t keep ripping them out. The ratio won’t allow it anymore.
I know it’s a normal part of aging but it’s unsettling, this change. How do they go from dark to light so rapidly? Internet science tells me that they don’t just turn grey, that they grow in that way anew. But I don’t buy it. It feels like every morning brings a new batch of complete, long, grey hairs. I Where’s Waldo them in the mirror every day and yank out the unruliest, the ones that give me away. It’s pointless but I’m not ready to just let them be yet.
I wanted to write something about ghosts. Something about how when they show up in your dreams they steal rest from you all night long. Not the kinds of ghosts that wear sheets and chains or the kinds of spectral presences that populate spooky stories. I’m talking about the kind of ghosts that used to live large in your life but that you killed off, metaphorically speaking, so you could move on. About how when they use your dreams to resume their presence in your life, it sucks the wind right out of you. Who gave them the right?
I wanted to write about those ghosts but I couldn’t come up with anything to say, really.
Normally I try not to get too upset at winter for doing its thing. Just let it run its course. It’ll lose steam and get gone and we’ll see it creeping back in later in the year after it’s run off to have its affairs elsewhere.
Hell, I even appreciate that winter gives me a few months of long sleeves, layers, tights, coats and scarves.