Chasing the Gray

The first time I found one, I studied it for a long time.  I wanted to be sure it wasn't a trick of the eye or a reflection from the light. How had I not noticed it before?  It was as long as the rest of my hair.  As I observed it, the contrast between my dark auburn shoulder-length hair and this impossibly long bright white hair seemed to grow.

When I finally plucked it, I held the undeniable proof of my mortality between my thumb and forefinger.  It had a coarse texture, a certain kinkiness.  I held it up to the light, marveling at my body's new creation, the product of a tough pregnancy and a month of sleepless nights caring for a newborn.  I wanted to place it in a special box, marked milestone body secretions, but Bella began whimpering and I threw it carelessly into the toilet before rushing to soothe my first-born.

It's been seven years since I plucked my first gray hair.  Many of its brothers and sisters have followed it down the toilet.  My amusement over this new phenomenon rapidly gave way to depression and then acceptance as I found gray hairs more and more frequently.  What began as an occasional game of "pluck that sucker" has turned into a nightly twenty-minute grooming ritual.  I am no longer eradicating their presence, just minimizing their impact.  One warm summer night this summer, I felt a sharp pain as one of my friends plucked a tantalizing gray stray. The time has come to embrace a new solution.

I do not come from a line that grays gracefully.  Our gray hair does not add new interesting highlights.  Instead, they clash, stand out and shock, giving an overall appearance of dirty and greasy hair.  My sisters and I always joked about one aunt in particular who was partial to wearing mumus to accentuate the Cruella effect of the few brown streaks amongst her gray.   I now have nightmares that I will look at a picture of her and see the resemblance to myself. 

I have been discussing my hair dye options with my hairdresser for a few years now, but have always found a reason to postpone the inevitable.  But I've run out of excuses.  There are no more planned pregnancies on the horizon.  My hair has finally stopped falling out in clumps from the post-partum hormones.  And the gray is spreading.

It's time.  Time to find new shampoos for color-treated hair.   Time to double (or is it triple?) the cost of my haircuts.  Time to change the texture of my soft hair.  Time to embrace this new beauty routine.  But maybe, just maybe, it's finally time to try life as a red-head.

Fellow Travelers

Motherhood is a long journey. It is a journey through sleep deprivation, childhood illnesses, discipline issues, bedtime snuggles, messy crafts, reading drills and long rides in the car. It is a journey that begins in the labor and delivery room and hopefully continues to grandmotherhood.

On this journey, you obviously spend a lot of time with your children and spouse, but they are not your fellow travelers. They don't see the journey from the same perspective. My fellow travelers are all the other mothers who have joined me for all or part of my journey and have helped make it smoother. I read somewhere - it might have been in the Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy - that when you become pregnant, it's like you've suddenly joined a club you didn't know existed: the universal mother club. Motherhood is the bond that allows random conversations between mothers of all walks of life, from bus drivers and waitresses to lawyers and CEOs. But we need more than these solicited and unsolicited pieces of advice from strangers to stay afloat. We need the mothers we befriend along the way: in playgroups, in music class, at Starbucks, in our children's schools, or in the neighborhood. It's with these mothers that we share our fears, our joys, and have a forum for all our questions.

Our fellow travelers don't provide us all support, however. I remember being very involved in serious competition and unhealthy infant comparison with the mothers of my first playgroup in New York City. I spent many nights agonizing over why Bella was not crawling like Noah and worrying that little Isa seemed to have a much more extensive vocabulary than Bella. This competition was egged on by one mom who delighted in loudly announcing other babies' slower development and trumpeting her daughter's obvious superiority in all realms of infant development.

Now that Bella is older and has been joined by two younger siblings, my mother friends are even more crucial to my sanity. We coordinate car pools, playdates, and share advice ranging from cooking for our children to sex with our husbands. We are each other's witnesses. We delight in our kids' triumphs and share each other's frustrations. We help out with meals and driving in emergencies or provide a destination for your children when you really need a manicure or a break.

The journey is long and some of your fellow travelers will change. Some will get off the train and others will get on. They'll make the journey with you and your children, so choose them carefully. Don't be afraid to change cars if need be. Your fellow travelers will make the difference between an unforgettable journey or a banal walk in the park.

This post is in response to the prompt "Fellow Travelers". For more sunday scribblings on the same prompt, go to http://www.sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/.