Naked posting: on gray

Oh, you thought I was being a tease, didn’t you? That this was some from-the-heart posting, but clothes were on?

Nope. I’m naked. Buff-blogging. Nudie-notation. Welcome to my bathroom!

Actually, that’s not true. The naked thing, not exactly. I’m sitting on a towel, Buddha-like, but not quite as cheerful. I have my I-had-them-before-Tina-Fey glasses on. And my socks, white and pink ankle-high footies.

Most importantly, I am wearing a head full of Clairol GraySolution #5G Medium Golden Brown that’s dripping down my ears and neck. Metaphorically, I am wearing a head full of existential protest, with the dial turned to AGING. My head is covered in already-turning-brassy NO NO NO NOT YET NOT ME.

Peeps. I’m not manic, don’t worry. Meds on track, getting enough sleep, no alcohol except for one salted Pomegranate Martini at Bennigan’s with Mom the other night, because who can resist something like that?

No, right now, I’ve just got 25 minutes to kill, and I am thinking about this gray hair thing. And what it means, and doesn’t mean, to various people.

I woke up this morning DETERMINED that I would cover these grays. I have a hunch that the strain of the past few years and the constant medicine jerking-around has cranked up the aging process.

I come from curvy rosy-cheeked Polish women who tend to look younger than their age (until anyone gets a peek at the cellulite on their tushies, yee haw! it’s the Polish Grand Canyon, living in those granny panties!). And I have clung to the rosy upper cheeks over the years with more vanity than I realized.

They’re still there, a little less rosy, maybe. But the lithium is having a field day with the lower cheeks (what’s that Victoria? Your secret is that YOU WILL NEVER CARRY XXXL TANGAS? No?), and, I think, my hair.

Gray. Gray. Gray. Where did you come from?

And more importantly: Why do I care?

I am nearing 40. People get a little gray around then.

But.

I read stupid things. I read that 40 is the new 30 and 30 is the new 20 and 20 is the new 10 and 10 is the new crawl back into the womb.

I look at stupid pictures, in magazines and in family photos. I look at who I was and who I almost was. I can’t figure out what people see, and I know I shouldn’t care. I tell my daughters it doesn’t care. I shake my Polish bum and tell them that, yes, this is what a real woman looks like.

So why did I wake up with the determination of a starving wildebeest, to zap the gray out of this hair?

Ladies, speak to me. Where do you stand on gray? What did your mothers teach you about gray?

***Extra points if you naked-blog the comment.