The Grey Color of Crossing the Six-Oh-Dear! Day

It's not so much that I'm touting my birthday—assuming that I don't die tonight—but today is my final day of being in my fifties. I may be sad. No, maudlin. Somewhat reflective. Kind of happy. But not really.

 

Two months ago I did something I thought that I would never do. I'm letting my natural hair color grow out. Baby, that's a freaking reality check. Thursday I either cut it to the one-inch grey and white natural color (a chic post-cancer treatment look), or I continue this subtle weave thing that blends the red remains with the grey and white business.

 

Why all this? I'm without a reasonable reply. It is, however, me and how I've approached whatever gifts and un-gifts that I came in with—or sort a of love it or leave thing. I've had to love it because I can't leave it.

 

I'm not the first of friends and family crossing that six-oh-dear line. I won't be the last. For two years I've written about it, which was okay because…my hair wasn't grey (?) so it didn't seem real? No intelligent answer comes forth.

 

So what to do? Pay tribute to my hair in all its incarnations from my first birthday on. To be continued.

Photos:
1)Piano birthday-girl--My first birthday.
2)A red cowboy hat third birthday.
3)Eighteen and ready for the world.
4)"Heidi" in a purple haze birthday mood someplace near Wrightwood, CA.
5)A working birthday as a reporter/photographer. Other newspaper gave newsman Jack Overlade the same assignment. This was his birthday photo for me.
6)Bookstore mama with Big Bird wishing me a happy 50-something birthday.