New Hair

My grey hairs are coming in prisms. They are not white. They are not grey. They are individual wisps of matter that catch any and all light and send it back, split into rainbow colors and absolutely radiating.

It is the hair that my father’s mother had. When I first met her I knew it would be mine too. Someday.

It was nearly blinding in the light. Thick, glorious, white waves that held specks of all the colors, that would play and dance, flecks of purple, and blue, and green, and ruby red. It seemed to me to be the most beautiful magic that time could perform.

I told myself when I was younger that I would welcome the changes that came with age, as they would mean that I somehow survived for long enough to see them come to pass. I did not think that my turning hair would become the first feature of mine I would find anything close to vanity in.

But here they are.

There are three of them that I can find regularly. There had been more, probably close to a dozen, but this last year took a whole bunch of my sanity and what seemed to be most of my hair. And that was before 2020 even arrived.

By my 40th birthday in October handfuls were coming out daily. Now there is a fine crown of baby hairs poking out among the survivors, the replacements from my season of worry. They are curly now, back to the fine ringlets I had as a young girl, as are my silver hairs, back to how I first knew them.

I would love to cycle back to the heart that was in that girl I was. It was not jaded yet. It knew that deep down, all people could be good. It knew how to radiate light.

There will be more new hairs, if I am lucky enough to to live them into being. I’ll let them capture my imagination. I’ll let them remind me of the me I once was that I want to once more become. I’ll let them shine and eventually, maybe they’ll work their magic on me.

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