This morning after getting up and doing my morning routine, I looked in the mirror. Suddenly I saw what I’ve been denying that my wife has been telling me for the last two years: Gray hair.
Unfortunately, I didn’t see just one. I saw several peppered throughout my hair. I leaned into the mirror to get a closer look and they almost sparkled, nay, winked at me as if to say, “You’re getting old, know whatahmean? Know what ahmean?”
I’ve been in a state of denial about the gray hair for at least two years. This June, I’ll be 42.
I’m writing this sitting in a medical clinic, waiting for my aunt to be finished with a doctor’s appointment. The majority of the people that have been in here are over 60, including my aunt, who just turned 61 on Saturday — meaning they all have a lot more gray hair than I do.
I wistfully watch as most of them are being accompanied by a walker, a cane along with a son or a daughter and a nurse then to see the doctor. Some day that will be me, sans the son or daughter since my wife and I have chosen not to have children (a subject for another post). It might be a niece or a nephew, or a boy or girl Scout.
At least I hope I live that long to hobble along, shuffle to the exam room. I hope the prognosis is good, that despite my gray hair, I’ve got more than a few good years left in my tank.