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A Silver Spark

March 10, 2010

15 years old and we used lemon juice and sunshine, hairdryer in the pinch of Ohio winters.  At 17 I discovered the magic of henna.  19 found me in college and having a stylist give me a gorgeous shade of Irish Setter.  At 21, I could do it myself.  And I did for almost 20 years.  Being a red-head suited me.  Somewhere in my 20s, it went back to brown briefly and people said they liked my “natural red better.”  Go figure.  There was a tryst with screaming blonde, but that was too much work to keep up.  And then, trying to make a life in Italy, coloring at all seemed like a hassle I could do without.

So, for over forty years, my hairs have grown every one of them their native mousey brown.  But as my sweet little old gray man cat was shuffling toward the Rainbow Bridge and I was doing everything humanly possible to ease his journey, he may have left some wisp of himself behind.  I have a gray hair.

But it’s okay.  In fact, it’s an especially nice one, silvery.  Perhaps it is only just sputtering out, alternating brown and not, eventually to settle into some flat shade of gray.  But for now, it catches the light like a silver spark.  Every time it shines as I comb in the part, I think of him, my gray man, and I don’t mind it being there.  Once I had a dream where Wordsworth was purple.  So, if the silver spark brings any friends along, which I’ve been told they are wont to do, maybe I will color each one of them purple.

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