While not quite lamenting all the gray in my hair now, it was a slight jolt when I saw a picture from a decade ago of me on Christmas Eve with decidedly fewer gray hairs (like none). My friend Marline quickly came to my defense against my own self-doubt by saying that I earned them. (And to be fair, we earned them together, with a few usual suspects draining the color from our heads.)
These days, there are far greater concerns than gray hair or the world-weary wrinkles and lines that are creeping into my face. I’ve made my peace with the aging process mostly, and most of my squawking and complaining is merely for show. Something to go along with the general impression and image the world has of me, the version that makes it easier to deal with daily life. Not a big deal really. I’ve reached the age where it doesn’t bother me as much – it’s more of a fascinating realization that maybe I’ve come a little further in my own self-acceptance than I give myself credit for.
Winter gray, like the coat of a wolf or some silver fox, can be quite beautiful, especially at this time of the year. It indicates a hard-won reserve of wisdom and genuine confidence, with nary the need to pretend anymore. (There’s also a sprinkling of fuck-around-and-see-what-happens in it.) Whatever gets one through the winter.
