Growing Old

We were sitting comfortably, talking about many things. It was an ordinary afternoon. But in a moment, my life was going to change.

I was deeply immersed in telling some story of the day. My father was engaged, his eyes listening intently. My mother, who had appeared deeply interested until this point, had let her eyes wander and suddenly scrunched her nose up like she does when she’s about to announce: “Catherine, you need a hair cut.” or “Catherine, you need to pluck your eyebrows.”. Instinctively, I paused. But she didn’t say anything, and suddenly returned her gaze to my eyes, looking sheepish.

That’s when I knew it was something really bad. “What, Ma?”

“Oh, nothing.” If you wait long enough, Mom will reveal something she may not have wanted to originally. So I held my tongue.

“It’s just,” she said, “that looked like a gray hair.”

I laughed. “Ma, I’m 22. I don’t have gray hairs.”

She looked awkwardly at my father, who suddenly was scanning my scalp as well. “No,” he said, and I felt relieved. B always has my back. But then: “That’s definitely a gray hair. I can see it from here.” And B has really, really poor eyesight.

Omg. Of course, I figured, they’re just both getting old and seeing things. “Pull it out then. We’ll see.”

So she did – along with about 10 other perfectly happy strands of golden girls. But she held the one – the obviously gray hair – higher than the rest.

“Shit.”