When I was younger I always felt like I would feel "old" or grown when I would get to a certain age. In high school I thought 18 was grown. Then I turned 18 and still felt the same. 21 hit and still nothing. Now at 26, I am still waiting to get that "all grown up" feeling. I'm beginning to suspect that my early ideas of what being an adult is are never going to come true. Of course I have changed and grown over the years, a lot. A loooot. But I'm still me. I still laugh at potty humor and hate doing the dishes. I still love playing outside in my bare feet.
So far, I've lived on the fringes of adult society. It never helped that people usually think I'm still 19 or 20. But I've got real living proof that I'm getting old.
White. Hair.
The first white hair found its way tangled in between Carolina's sweet chubby fingers. I finally wrenched it from her grasp after 30 minutes of wandering through the baby finger labyrinth. This coarse, pale hair. Exactly the length of my hair, and yet definitely not mine.
Then sometime this week I found another one on the bathroom sink. And I brushed my hair up to reveal a little patch of three white hairs, clinging together like shipwreck survivors floating on a sea of brown.
It's like my mini battle scar. A foreshadowing of many more to come. It made me think of Rogue in the X-Men movie. I got a white streak when my children sucked my power from me. (Just kidding! They know I have no power.) Anyway I guess white is better than gray so I'm good. I'm not fighting God on this one. Plus it's getting me one step closer to my life-long dream of looking like Willie Nelson when I grow up.
I am absolutely 100% serious about this.
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