As a little girl, I wanted
to grow up and “do something great.” I knew
God made me special and that someday I would
prove it to the world. In preparation, I
rehearsed each morning before the bathroom
mirror, hairbrush microphone in hand. Johnny
Carson, I was certain, would be electrified
and mesmerized when I recounted the amazing
details of my life to his television
audience.
Then a bunch of life
happened.
Fast-forward lots of
years. . . now I’m a 42-year old soccer mom
with a 21-year marriage, a 17-year old son,
and an 11-year old daughter. Not exactly the
kind of stuff that would land me a spot on
The Tonight Show, though.
This thought struck me
last week as I stood in front of that old
familiar bathroom mirror. Instead of “Lights!
Camera! Action!” however, a cabinet of
lotion, cotton balls and aspirin faced me.
The Tonight Show and the dream of all
those glamorous “something great”s seemed as
remote as Fantasy Island.
I plucked a grey hair from
my hairbrush and held it up to the light.
Whatever happened to that little girl?
How did I go from
bright lights to bathroom lights without
even noticing?
I wondered about that all
week long.
Monday was my regular
six-week appointment with my stylist.
Gabriel combed his fingers through my
salt-and-pepper hair. He tilted his head to
one side, as if pondering the enormous
undertaking before him.
“Are you tired of your
grey, yet?” he asked.
“No….” I said, shifting in
my seat. “Are you?” I asked, a little
unsure of myself.
“Yeah, kind of,” he
admitted, wrinkling his nose.
“O-kay,” I relented
after a minute of hemming and hawing.
Gabriel wanted to commence cutting and
coloring right away, but I negotiated a
six-week reprieve. He cut a bit here and
tugged a little there, but my tender head
was numb to his clipping and combing and
coiffing. I was lost in my thoughts,
mentally practicing a pitch for the raise I
would surely need to keep up my new “do.”
When Gabriel finished, he shook the brown
and silver leftovers onto the floor and
swept them away like bothersome clutter. I
scheduled an appointment for my next cut
and color, but I left feeling depressed.
Thursday, I met eight
friends for dinner. We’re all between 40-50
years old, but I noticed not a grey hair in
the bunch, save mine. Normally chatty, I
felt out of place. My blonde and brunette
friends surrounded me in all their
beautifully highlighted glory, and I
suddenly felt very plain and mousy. I
panicked. I’m not as hip or cool as my
up-to-date friends! I’m approaching my
expiration date faster than they are! I
managed an outward appearance of calmness
and serenity, but inside, I was agitated.
Friday, our daughter
Rebekah celebrated her eleventh birthday
with a group of her friends. My weeklong
uneasiness melted in the presence of these
giddy girls.
Anna, a tall, blonde 6th
grader with bright, blue eyes held
out her plate as I served cake. She eyed me
for a moment, then declared, “Wow, Mrs.
Beers! You have a lot of grey hair!”
Anna hadn’t seen me for awhile.
“Why yes, I do, Anna!” I winked
playfully at her. She rewarded me with a
grin.
“I haven’t seen anyone with that
much grey besides my grandma,” she ventured,
stuffing a forkful of cake into her mouth.
“Well, Anna, that’s because a lot of
women cover up their grey.”
“Really?” she seemed shocked to
learn this. “How come don’t you cover
yours?”
I leaned close to her. “Because God might
be doing something interesting,” I whispered
conspiratorially, “and I don’t want to miss
it.”
“Oooooh!” Anna nodded knowingly. I
couldn’t tell if she thought I was crazy, or
if she suddenly realized she had just
encountered a real, live Wise Woman.
Anna wolfed down the rest of her cake and
scampered off to join Rebekah in a
three-legged race. As I listened to the
giggling girls and admired their tresses
shining in the summer sun, I thought about
what I’d said to Anna. I hadn’t planned to
say it--it just sort of popped out. And like
Goldilocks settling in to Baby Bear’s chair,
it felt juuuust right.
I felt my depression lifting, like a
party balloon drifting away on a summer
breeze.
Saturday, I awoke feeling more at ease
with myself than I had in ages. Overnight
I’d made a decision: I’m keeping my
grey! What I’d said to Anna was true. I
really don’t want to miss whatever
cool thing God is doing—such as the fact
that my grey is coming in wavy. And
yes, I’d love for little kids in line with
their mothers at the grocery store to
encounter me in all my greying glory,
marveling that they’ve possibly run into a
real, live Wise Woman. But here’s the idea
that clinches it for me: I want my daughter
to know, through my example, that aging can
be a beautiful and exciting adventure. Maybe
even electrifying and mesmerizing.
This last thought is a compelling one for
me.
Outwardly, I’m no different this six
weeks than I was before. But my friends have
noticed a quiet, “something different” about
me. My conversation with Reba this morning
went like this:
“Have you lost weight?” she asked.
“Not since the day Rebekah was born,” I
quipped. She ignored my attempt at humor and
dug further.
“Dental work?”
“Nope.”
“Don’t tell me you decided to try Botox!”
she gasped, eyes as big as saucers.
“Uh-uh,” I giggled, spilling coffee on my
shirt.
“Well, for heaven’s sake! Don’t make me
guess—tell me!
“It’s simple,” I smiled. “I surrendered
and decided to like the way God made me, and
I’m starting by keeping my grey.”
I seized the ensuing moment of stunned
silence to nudge Reba’s Inner Wise Woman out
of hiding. “You should try it,” I stated
simply. She stared at me as if I’d lost my
mind. I held her astonished gaze, quietly
imagining her in all her glorious grey,
silver, or “platinum blonde.”
I’m a 42-year old soccer mom who’s aging.
And that’s a good thing. And if I never land
a spot on The Tonight Show, that’s
okay, too. When I think about the freedom I
feel and the example I’m setting for my
daughter, my friends, and the five-year old
watching me in the grocery line, I’m
satisfied deep down to my bones.
After all, I’m grown-up now, and I’m
doing something great.
Heather Trent Beers is a
freelance writer who lives with her husband, 2 children, a cat
and a dog in the Kansas City area. When she finishes growing
up, she hopes to have a beautiful head full of “platinum
blonde” hair, just like her Dad. She is grateful for the wide
variety of friends she has, and has decided to love them all
equally, even if they decide to color their hair.
