Gray is Beautiful

Getting a haircut on the kibbutz is a scary experience. This is mainly because the cutter in question tends to get a little drunk with power. Instead of the light trim you asked for, you are likely to find half your hair suddenly on the floor. Not only that but every single time I go she discovers to her surprise how much gray I have.

It’s not a surprise to me. I’m well aware that the clock does not go backward. More to the point, the gray in my hair is appropriate to my age and I feel no need to cover it up. I’m actually happy to be getting old because it’s so much better than the alternative.

Of course, this all can be attributed to my background. I grew up in a very conservative city. Divorce was unheard-of, women always wore skirts and never trousers, and they never, ever dyed their hair. I rarely speak of this now. People will think I grew up on a different planet.

Perhaps I did. In any event, I take my graying head as a survivor’s merit badge. I earned every gray hair, and most importantly, I’m still here.