A lovely shade of gray

"It's GRAAAAYYYYYY" is what ushered from my mouth, when an errant hair was sticking straight out, in front of my eyes, while I tried to type today. I had just had my hair done and, based on the amount of mousse, hairspray and the general lack of humidity in the air, every hair should have been perfectly in place.

Not this little guy. He was standing at attention like a member of General Patton's army. No doubt, to get my ATTENTION.

Tugging gingerly, he fell into my little hand and looked, shall I say, ODD. Odd as in NOT BROWN, like the rest of the hair on my planetoid of a head.

Now, just last year, I think the race to grayville began. I, however, have been in complete denial, based on the following:

1. My first hint that there may be a little multi-color action going on was at a charity event. It was the first time Mike and I had been out, dressed up beyond Sunday morning, in FOREVER*. This was a food-lovers dream of a party, too. Cocktail hour with heavy hor devours (and an open bar), salad before the meal (with wine), first course (with a new wine), second course (ANOTHER wine), and dessert (with a choice of PORT!!)

I had a little bit of every liquor available.

Mike probably had a drink during the hor devours, then he switched to "designated driver and lucky husband with a slightly drunken-wife" mode. But, being one Tanqueray and tonic ahead of him, I ignored the following comments, made post-first drink from the open bar:

Mike: "Look. How cute! You have gray hairs!**"

Me (dryly): "Very funny."

Mike: "No, really. There, in your part. Just a few. Aren't they CUTE?"

Me: "Waiter? (pointing to glass) Another, please?"

Not exactly the time/place you want date-boy pointing out your impending status as a hot-momma in a nursing home.

Being a little, "under the influence", shall we say, I figured he had NO IDEA what he was talking about and chalked it up to poor hotel lighting.


2. My birth Mother has absolutely no gray in her hair AT ALL. I thought I had won the gene lottery after I met her. I'm normally not a lucky person. So, how in Sam Hill, did I get so fortunate?

Problem is, I've never met my birth FATHER. He could have goose feather grays all over his head, be bald as a baby, or have a comb-over he can't let go of. At this point, I just don't know.

But, I've been betting on birth Mom's genes to help me slide into Heaven with cow poo brunette hair.

Looks like I'll be sliding with CLAIROL "Bodacious brown #67" after all.

By the way, when we arrived home after swanky charity event, I walked my best straight line through the kitchen, past the babysitter****, and straight to bed.

What happened there is none of your business. It's just between my gray head and my husband's impossibly thick, wavy when it is too long, brown and GRAY hair.

Atop his head that is four years YOUNGER than mine.

HA.


*and a day.

**After you have kids, you never really have a hair-do, so it's virtually impossible, UNLESS you attend a hoity-toity party, for your husband to know if the color of your hair is a result of dirt, spit-up or lack of washing.

****Whom I acknowledged and slurred to.