I don’t have a lot of gray hair.  You may not even notice it.  But, I used to pluck them as soon as I saw them.  Every.  Single.  One.  Sometimes, my loving sister would do it for me.

And then I turned 37.  Suddenly, the grays seemed a little different.  They represented the years I’ve lived.  The nights up with kids.  The nerve-wracking Aprils, waiting for pink slips for fifteen years until I was finally in a place long enough to have tenure.  Worry for students.  Frustration with Justin and then remembering that we’re on the same team and working through the situation.

It wasn’t so important to me to have my hair look like I was still in my twenties.  I’m not in my twenties – and I don’t want to go back.  Sure, there were some great things!  My mom and stepdad got married and have been an amazing example for me.  I graduated college and earned a Masters.  I fell in love and got married.  I moved from Kentucky to Georgia to Massachusetts.  I went to Europe for the first time.  Robbie was born.

My thirties have been the best years of my life.  I finally got the hang of this marriage and motherhood thing.  I graduated from Boston College.  I became more confident in my teaching.  I ran not one but two marathons.  I started a successful clothing business.  I grew closer to family.  For the first time in my life, I became comfortable with who I was.  Why would I want to hide that?

Now, I may feel differently if there was more gray in my hair.  But there’s just enough for me to see every morning as I get ready for work, just enough to remind me how far I’ve come from early adulthood.


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