Touch of gray
By Cynthia Oi
enlightensI remember my first gray hair. I was in second grade, in Mrs. Shelton's class, and my desk mate started teasing me about being old. I couldn't see the strand so I thought he was just being Donald, a bully who gave me Indian burns and always made fun of everybody (until 6th grade, when he foolishly took on a bigger kid who shoved him down in the school yard during first recess, ha!)
Still, I wasn't sure if he was kidding. It bothered me through the day and it wasn't until after Japanese school that I could go home and look in the mirror.
There it was, on the left side of my head, right above my ear.
I yanked it out, only later learning of the old wives' tale that warned if you pull out one, two will take its place. Tale or not, by high school, white hairs were part of my bushy coiffure, but I ignored them. By then, larger teen-age problems had my attention.
It was not until my early 40s that the full white out began. Cousin Bonnie, a cutting-edge hair stylist, advised me to color my hair "because you're too young to be walking around with that gray."
My cousin rules as far as hair is concerned. So every month for years, she'd skillfully apply various color mixtures to hide the white.
But it was a pain. When I didn't have the time to visit Bonnie, my white roots would give me a strange two-toned look. Finally, in mid-1997, before I went on a hiking trip to New Mexico, a month before my 50th birthday, I bagged the dye-jobs.
SINCE then, my hair has grown out; it is clearly gray. And to my wonder, the color has begun to make a difference in how people react to me.
People seem more deferential. Motorists who once showed impatience as I crossed the street in front of them, now give me space. Some even politely wave and smile.
At a store the other day, as I stretched to reach a mug on a high shelf, a young clerk hurried over to help. "Aunty," he said. "Let me help you." He refused to let me wait in a long line of other customers, ringing up my bill immediately.
He also refused to let me stand in the gift-wrap line, sneaking behind the counter and grabbing what I needed. I was impressed with his kindness.
At the supermarket, other customers offer to let me through the check out first. At the airport, people offer to haul my bag. At shopping centers, people relinquish parking spaces.
I haven't changed my modus operandi: I still bustle through the aisles at Longs, walk quickly, speak directly and generally maintain the aggressive attitude that's been with me for life.
My gray hairs are the only reason I can think of for the change. Although they've been with me most of my life, they were out of sight to others, out of mind to me.
Now that I am undisguised, I guess I look my age.
And in my middle years, I've found a kind of peace with my hair.
Once it was so thick, water wouldn't penetrate the kinky mess even when I went swimming. Now it is thinner, softer, easier to control. It may be a metaphor for my life.
Cynthia Oi is a staff writer for the Honolulu Star-Bulletin.
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