Ok, look — it happens. Just as you find your unapologetic voice and perfect Spanx getup, something starts glowing on your head. Upon closer examination, there it is — a fucking gray hair. Damn! It’s happening. The gray stage has officially begun.

Lucky for us, it’s pretty darn easy to cover up those little coarse buggers. One base-color hair treatment every six weeks or so, and voilà! Bye-bye, old lady head.

Once we finally, albeit reluctantly, accept our incandescent scalps, a fleeting moment of joy occurs for blonds (or fake blonds, as 99% of us are at this point). I remember the day so clearly. I was in the shower cleansing my lady bits and my eyes saw something I’d waited for since puberty. Could it finally be happening? A light-colored hair was peeking its way through the foaming cap of Dove soap. After many long years of explaining my color discrepancy to intimate partners, the carpet finally matched the drapes. I was officially becoming blond downstairs. There is a God and she is, for sure, a female with blond hair.

My moment of bodily color coordination was quickly crushed when after a good rinse, the little asshole shined bright like a diamond — a gray pubic hair. Never mind. God is definitely a dude.

This is one moment no woman ever looks forward to. Adult daughters who have had the necessary misfortune of seeing their mother’s hoo-hoos at an advanced age, know what’s coming and it ain’t pretty. Maybe my friends who remove all their hair down there, aka the “bald eagles,” had a wise plan to save themselves early on from this horrific sight. Because as I now know, once one coarse Casper the Ghost hair appears, his many friends join, in short order. It seems a mature woman’s crotch is where all the cool grays like to hang out.

So, just as I’ve learned to live with my hood and undercarriage matching in an ashen shade, I figure the worst is behind me — at this point I’m pretty much done with my major sources of hair changing color. Acceptance is virtually upon me.

That is, until one day, while gazing into a 10x magnification mirror to fill in my sparse brows, I can’t believe my eyes. As I’m rapidly losing what’s left of my thinning eyebrows, what does the universe decide to bestow on me? Yep, a fucking gray eyebrow hair. Not cool. Seriously, not cool at all.

This is a whole new, unexpected form of aging that is literally thrown in and on my face. Not only is it unwelcome, it isn’t offering any assistance to what few brown-haired soldiers I have left clinging to life atop my eye socket. Now I face a new dilemma. Do I pluck the little shit, or bathe him in brow gel and use him to my advantage? As a sign of revolt, I grab my Tweezermans and rip his ass outta there. Take that universe.

I should have known that if the gray fairy can strike your head, lady parts, and eyebrows, she certainly wouldn’t stop there. The last frontier unaffected by the magical gray bitch went to hell this past weekend. While admiring a fresh batch of eyelash extensions in my evil magnification mirror, I can’t believe my nearly blind eyes. I have a gray eyelash! How is this possible? Thanks to plummeting estrogen levels, I’m nearly out of hair altogether, yet she still finds a way. That gray fairy is ruthless, cruel, twisted and definitely not a girl’s girl.

It’s official. The universe, the gray fairy, and God who is clearly a guy are out to get me. Someone should probably tell them I’m far too young for this shit.


Holly Hunter Morley is a freelance writer, recently released from kid jail, ready to resurrect her once semi-successful writing career. See her work, well, nowhere yet except on her new blog baby www.flirtingwithafelony.com and on Instagram @flirtingwithafelony. Holly pushed out three kids and is married to the most patient man on earth. She also has way too many dogs in her Northern California home.


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