13 Shades of Gray

Have you ever had one of those friends who might say, "You look fabulous." however you can hear a "but" about to be uttered?

You wonder, Alright, then, when will the other shoe drop?

I have such a friend. Her name is Marcy.

Marcy is truly a great friend. If I ever were in need, no matter the time of day or night, just one phone call and she'd come running - well, driving. She lives four miles away and at our advanced ages, I would never expect her to "run" anywhere.

So, then, let me explain Marcy.

Marcy has the heart of an angel. She's giving, compassionate, eager to help, always there in to listen if the need arises. As I said, she's a great person. However, she has this one very annoying flaw. She always feels free to offer advice, asked for or not.

Yes, I'm overweight, not obese, just a few rolls and muffins here and there on my body that I will always be working hard to erase. Maybe I'll succeed, maybe not. At my age and with my health, no one really cares - especially me. My clothes hide most of my imperfections.

I also wear hearing aids. They are hidden behind my ears and hair which I wear about two inches below my shoulders.

Age issue again, I have some wrinkles on my face. I guess I should mention that I am over seventy years old and feel I've earned every one of them.

Marcy accepts all my flaws - except one: my hair!

When I was younger, I was always eager to try different hair styles and colors. I've been a redhead, brunette, blonde, brown, and at one time, even tried dyig my hair black. Unfortunately, none of the colors satisfied me long enough to maintain any one of them.

One day, I announced to my husband that as soon as I reached my 75th birthday, the hair dying would stop. He said he was happy with whatever I chose since it was my hair and "besides", he said, "you can do whatever makes you happy". (Right answer! I thought to myself.)

Then COVID hit. I was seventy-three years old. I laughed and told my husband that the virus changed my decision about being seventy-five. I chose immediately never to dye my hair again.

Here we are almost two years later and currently the color I'm wearing is known as "salt and pepper." It's dark with many streaks of gray and the top is whiter than the mix of the rest. Do I care? Nope! This is my natural color. This is me.

Through the years with work and worry about my kids (who, by the way are now grown with families of their own), I feel I earned all the gray streaks. Just because my kids are in t heir fifties, doesn't mean I have stopped worrying about them. The worry, however, increased because now I also worry about their families.

My mom used to say that I could worry about a frog with a broken leg. She was right. Due to medication, my younger son lost most of his hair and decided to shave the rest off. At first, I worried about his self-esteem. He was only 35-years old. However, his ego wasn't deflated. He jokes about his lack of hair. I worry about my older son and the health problems he's incurred. I worry, well, I worry about so many things. I worry about the health of my husband. I just worry and worry!

So, yes, I feel I've earned all the gray that sits on my head. But as I said, this is me!

I choose to wear my hair a bit long, not to hide my hearing aids but because I like the style I've chosen. I can pull my hair back and wear it in a ponytail or put it in a bun at the back of my head. Perfect for a hot and muggy day - something I wouldn't be able to do if my hair was shorter. Besides, ego calling, it makes my face look a bit slimmer.

Marcy doesn't like it. Every so often, she'll gently tug my hair and say, "You really need to cut and dye your hair. I know a great hair stylist." Each time she says this, I remind her that I'm incredibly happy with my hair - something that took me years to accomplish. I don't bother going into the details and explanations of why. I shouldn't have to.

The last time she tried to convince me to cut and dye, I gently told her that my mom didn't tell me what to do with my hair and so my friends shouldn't either.

There are times when I wonder if, in order to be her friend, I'm supposed to follow a certain criterion. Be a "Stepford" friend or no friend at all. I never thought Marcy would be this way, but I could be wrong. It's just strange that of all my flaws, she has chosen to always mention her displeasure with my hair.

I often think of that old Lesley Gore song, "You don't own me. Don't try to change me in anyway."

Or better yet, that old Sammy Davis Jr. song, "I Gotta Be Me."

Remember the first stanza?

Whether I'm right or whether I'm wrong,

Whether I find a place in this world or never belong,

I gotta be me, I've gotta be me.

What else can I be but what I am?

Covid has come and hasn't exactly gone. We're now in the Omicron phase of the virus so I haven't seen Marcy in about six weeks.

It will be interesting to see what, if anything she'll say about my hair now that it's a bit longer than the last time we saw each other.

I'm debating with myself, if she mentions it, should I begin singing Sammy's song or just let it ride. Hmm. Makes me wonder.

Life sure can be interesting.