When You Notice Your First Gray Hair

A few months ago, I was getting ready for work and started to clean up my beard — pretty standard morning routine.

That’s when I noticed him. He was smiling at me.

A gray fucking hair on my chin.

I had no idea how to react.

Most modern men would grab a pair of tweezers and pluck that hair from their face.

But I remained calm and collected. I thought about giving him a chance.

The more I looked at him, the more he taunted me.

“You really thought you could work 70 hour weeks and I wouldn’t say hello?!”

Shut up grey hair.

“Just wait until my friends arrive. There are plenty more on the way. We’re going to have a gray hair party on your face!”

I quickly grab my tweezers and plucked him.

I then cooked myself a protein-rich dinner and listened to Kendrick Lamar.

I felt young again.

About a week later, I looked at my chin and the gray hair was back, along with a few of his promised friends.

Each gray hair introduced himself, like it was the first day of summer camp. It was actually kind of cute.

Then the original gray hair spoke to me:

“You really thought you could just pluck me without giving me a chance to see San Francisco?”

The other gray hair friends on my chin added to the guilt trip.

“What kind of an asshole are you? Judging us based on our follicle color? We came in peace man!”

Now I hate to admit it, but these little gray hairs had a point.

I failed to consider the larger meaning of going gray before killing my 1st gray hair.

Perhaps my first gray hair was a scholar, who listens to the same music as me — and also supports The San Francisco Bicycle Coalition.

I had plucked him without thinking twice and now I felt like a real asshole.

“You know gray hair, I might have been wrong to judge you. ”

I stared at the mirror awaiting a response.

“It’s just… I’m 29 years-old. I exercise every single day and I eat healthy food. And I didn’t expect to go gray until at least my mid 40's.

He said nothing.

“I freaked out. Okay? I freaked out!”

When he didn’t respond, I became pretty frustrated.

I plucked him from my face, knowing he would return in a few days.

We went weeks without talking — me and my gray hairs.

It was the worst silent treatment of my life.

I would occasionally try to start a conversation, but my gray hair wasn’t interested in chatting about local politics.

“Can you believe this BART strike? I mean what the fuck?”

Nothing. The silence was depressing. Something needed to change.

I stood in front of my mirror and looked carefully at every gray hair on my face.

“ I should have appreciated you, gray hair. You show people around me that I’m maturing — and that is actually a pretty beautiful thing.”

I could tell they were listening.

“I know a lot of amazing people with gray hair. Bill Murray. George Clooney. Kevin Costner.”

I totally lost them with the Costner reference. I needed to dig deeper.

“I will never pluck you again, gray hair. No moment of self doubt will change my decision. Can we make this work?”

Suddenly, a few more gray hairs began to sprout out of my chin.

The first gray hair started to speak.

“We accept your apology, Jeff…”

Holy shit, I was relieved. I hate silent treatments and my gray hair was finally speaking to me.

“And just so you know, I really wanted to speak during that BART strike. That whole thing was such a pain in the ass!”

He was starting to drift off topic. I could tell he was nervous.

“You are going to get more gray hair throughout your life, Jeff. You will learn to appreciate what aging means.”

That’s when it happened.

I threw my tweezers in the trash and promised myself that I would never think twice about getting wrinkles or growing gray hair.

Then I poured two glasses of Maker’s Mark and turned on my stereo.

We sat there together, just me and my gray hairs — drinking bourbon, listening to Belle & Sebastian, getting drunk.

It was a perfect night.

And I will never be afraid of aging again.