For my 40th birthday, I’ve been given one silver hair. Near the front of my head, it peeks out from my bangs. I have to search to find it, this wiry thread. I brush my bangs to and fro, hunting.
I do not pluck it. No. I may grimace over additional wrinkles around my mouth or eyes, falter at the lowering of my breasts, despair at the general negotiations with a body that is, undeniably, aging, but that hair: it charms me.
It is crinkly, shaped like the early 90’s when my sisters and I would press two-inch sections of hair at a time in that plastic covered crimping iron. We’d spend eons to crimp our entire heads. Now I have just one crimped hair. It took 40 years.
The purity of its silver-white is mesmerizing. For a moment, I wish to skip right to when I have a full head of silver but I do my best to savor this—this one representative who has come to greet me. To usher me into my 40s. Welcome to your new decade.