Don't Pluck!

by Patti

Today I plucked a gray hair off the top of my head.

It was one of those wiry, sprouty numbers that pop up seemingly overnight.
Now before you get all “big wup, one gray hair!” I’ll have you know that the one I plucked off the top of my head is one of thousands I have plucked in the last couple of years. At a red light? I pluck. In the bathroom? I pluck. Waiting for S to get off the school bus? I pluck. I CAN’T STOP PLUCKING.

This reminds me of when I used to go this Indian salon to get my brows threaded. Between visits, I would pluck any strays that peppered my brow bone. Each time I would sit down to get it done professionally, my threader, who apparently was somehow watching me and just knew I was cheating, would slap my forehead and scold, “Don’t pluck!” Her Hindi accent made it sound even more serious, and so it became that each time I dared to pluck my own strays, I would hear her voice: “Don’t pluck!”And I would feel guilty.

So now, the plucking has moved to the grays. The many, many oh-God-help-me grays. And because I pluck them, they grow back in the form of those wiry, sprouty little numbers. And because they grow this way, I can’t just wait for them to grow all long and white, so I have to pluck them AGAIN. which of course only leads to more wiry, sprouty little numbers which of course leads to more plucking, which of course leads to…

Need I go on?

I don’t know, there are many things I am finding depressing about “getting on” in years, but this wiry hair crap is pretty damned high on the list. I feel like it’s some sort of badge for all to see.”Hey look at me! I’m an old bitch!”

But then again, I guess it’s better than the alternative, right?

RIGHT?