Kimberlee K.

I have a few gray hairs that have sprouted right along my hairline.

And while I’ve read that it’s not necessarily “good” to pluck them, occasionally I do.

When I’m putting my hair up in a ponytail or a high bun and I have a troll doll-esque spikey hair sticking straight up, I pluck it, sue me.

I’m not ashamed of you, I tell the hair as I zone in on it with my tweezers, I just don’t need an Alfalfa gray blowing in the wind today, that’s all.

And it always responds by growing back, sometimes sharper, coarser, sometimes without fanfare.

Sometimes I’ll pull my hair up and see a long streak of gray slithering all the way into the rubber band and think, wow, you made it! You’ve joined the rest of the girls. Welcome.

But then I’ll stare at it for a few seconds more thinking, I have a gray hair. I am old enough to have gray hair.

Depending on which articles you read, some say that grays right along your hairline can be a product of your facewash. And having had acne prone skin for most of my life, I know I’ve subjected my face (and my hairline, apparently) to some harsh(ish) chemicals.

I’ve gone through periods of my life when my skin was in rough shape and it was the only thing I could think about. I was convinced that everyone I talked to was just staring at the bright, painful breakouts that pulsed under my skin. I was convinced they made me ugly and undesirable, and I tried everything from peels to drinking gallons of water to cutting out sugar and/or dairy to try to see improvement.

These days my skin seems to be content with whatever I’m doing correctly, though I’ve learned to anticipate its sudden shifts and demands. I haven’t reached a place where I love having breakouts, but I no longer pick at my skin, and no longer feel the soul deep devastation I once did when a pimple appears on my jawline or chin.

I’ve forced myself to notice how unphased I am by people with breakouts. By how quickly I stop noticing a pimple on a friend’s face. The same goes when their hair is frizzy, or if they’re not wearing any makeup. And I’ve tried my best to apply that as a balm to my own insecurities.

Sure, they might see that my skin isn’t “glassy”, with no pores, no scarring, no redness; they might see spots of my makeup that have slipped during the day or become oily; they might see the tiny gray hair flapping in the wind, or the chin hair that somehow escaped my hunting tweezers, but it’s not all there is to see.

If I continue to have the privilege to age, I’m going to get more gray hairs, and my skin might change again and again, forcing me to learn new ways to engage with it. And with the normalizing of plastic surgery, of anti-aging products, of diets and pills promising to help me stay youthful, it’s going to take a particular mindset to remain optimistic and complimentary towards myself. To look in the mirror and see what’s beautiful rather than search for what I’m told is not.

When little wrinkles inevitably appear on my face, when my hair really starts to go gray, when I start to look, by all accounts, older, I don’t want to spend that season of my life solely trying to look younger. I want to marvel at the fact that I lived long enough to earn wrinkles and gray hairs and the occasional ache and pain.

It won’t be easy, I’m sure, it might be really really hard, but it’s not something that everyone gets to do, so I want to be grateful if I get to experience it—the chance to be young and old.

For now, I’m just trying to let these gray hairs lead the charge.

Even the Alflafas.