Gray Hairs

One summer morning, Leta was combing her hair back so she could put it and get it out of the way to undertake the laundry. She had been letting it pile up over a three-week period of constant rain, and decided that enough was enough. She had no clean towels remaining, and her bedding was in desperate need to be refreshed. Her husband Ora perspired constantly. In addition, the children—Vivian and Dale—were beginning to look a little ragged. A good cleaning would refresh them all. She woke her early with the warm and inviting sun on her face. She smiled. Today would be a good day.

She rose quickly, dressed and washed her face. Then she set to combing her hair, which she would pin up in a bun under a scarf for the day. She kept her hair relatively short, and didn’t usually resort to this style. Yet, her chore called, and she didn’t want it getting in the way or even splattered with soap.

The sight of it startled her. There it was plain as her nose, in the middle of her forehead, pulled back with the rest of its peers—a highly noticeable gray hair.

Having gray hair terrified her, and over the years, she spent some thought-energy puzzling through her response when hers started growing in. Now here it was, and all she could think was to immediately yank out the culprit, which she did. She isolated it, yanked it out and then held it up to the light. “It’s gray all right,” she said aloud.

She could have ruminated for a long period on the consequences of this new development, but a quick inspection under the light yielded no other culprit and the laundry wasn’t going to wash itself. She put her hair up and covered it, and proceeded to complete her task. At the end of the day, she made another thorough check. When she found no other gray hairs, she simply forgot. For a few days, at least. On Saturday evening, she was again combing out her hair to prepare for a washing and there it was, a second gray hair. She quickly yanked it out, took a deep breath and then proceeded to comb her hair. Then she saw another, and pulled it out. After that, she refused to look closely at her hair. She washed it, dried it and let its natural curl tighten.

A few days later while she and her daughter Vivian were shucking peas at the kitchen table, Vivian began to look inquisitively at her, squinting her eyes under her glasses.

“What is it?” Leta inquired at almost the same time that her daughter said her name.

“I think you have some gray hairs, Ma,” Vivian said.

Leta swallowed hard. “Are you sure it’s not the light? It’s shining right across my head.”

Vivian reached her hand across and fingered several hairs on the side of Leta’s head, as if she was separating threads. Then she stepped back.

“I don’t think so,” Vivian said. “Those are gray hairs.”

“Well, don’t just stand there, then,” Leta snapped. “Pull them out.”

“All of them?”

“There can’t be that many. How many are there?”

“Four or five at least.”

“At least?”

Vivian resumed inspecting her mother’s hair. “And there are some over here and here. Ma, you have more gray hairs than I think I can pull out.”

“Stop it,” Leta ordered, slapping her daughter’s hands away. She stood abruptly, nearly knocking the girl over. “Finish the peas. I’m going to take a look at this myself.”

She wasn’t old enough to have so many gray hairs, she decided, peeling sections of her hair back and around. This was entirely unacceptable. Her sisters had gray in their hair. Her sister-in-law Florence had gray in her hair. But they were all older than she was. She was a lively woman, energetic, outgoing, witty, charming. Old women weren’t like that. Old women stayed home, cleaned house, knitted, gossiped. Old women pulled their hair back and wore housedresses and aprons on the street. She did none of these things. When she went out of the house, she dressed for it. How could she possibly have gray hair?

As she stared at herself in the mirror, terrified of the prospects for a woman with gray hair, she decided that she would have her beautician color it. She knew no other woman in her circle that did so, and these women often talked negatively about the women who did dye their hair—they were morally questionable and vain. But Leta did not are what these women thought. She made her appointment for Monday morning.

Leta was unhappy with the result. Although the beautician tried to match her natural color, result was two shades different. The natural shadings that gave their hair depth disappeared. It also lost its sheen and luster, and the result was artificial. Her hair looked dyed. Plus, the chemicals in the dye made her scalp burn. While she was sitting in the chair, she gripped its arms at the pain.

So Leta had to settle with what she had. At age 34, Leta began to have gray hair.