This is me.

I’m 37 years old. 

My hair is probably sixty percent gray now. 
And neither one of those things bothers me.

Here’s why:

1. I have no interest in misleading people about my age.

Mostly because I would much rather people think I look good for forty than kinda raggy for thirty.

2. I’ve earned it.

I’ve had many pregnancies, and many babies, and many children. I’m a wife and a mother and a teacher.

I’ve spent most of my life having people think I look young. But gray hair has lent me an aurora of wisdom and sophistication. Admit it, you want to take me seriously now. 

3. It’s counter-cultural. 

You’re going to think I’m a hipster again, but, seriously, all other hair colors are pretty mainstream. Check out the beautiful.

4. Ain’t nobody got time fo’ dat.

I spent my teens and twenties fighting tooth and nail with my hair. Perms, Sun-In, highlights, bleach, dye, I tried it all and my hair was basically a frizzy mess.

Now, I wash it once a week, let it air dry and wear it wavy for a couple of days, then hit it with a large barrel curling iron to ride out the week. I get it cut every couple of years.

There are plenty of other things I’d rather spend my time and money on than my hair. 

5. The husband digs it. My kids don’t care either way.
So far I haven’t been shunned by acquaintances or denied admission to any establishments. And my husband really, actually doesn’t want me to dye my hair. Any time I’ve considered it, he asks me not to. My husband prefers my hair the way it comes out of my head, and he’s the one I’m trying to impress anyway. As I’ve said before, my beauty was always for him.
Like fives of things?