In the past, I dated girls who colored their hair out of boredom. Now I'm dating older and dating grayer. Amanda colors her hair out of necessity. She's got an invasion of gray hair that she fights back once a month or so with a chemical bomb. The resurgence of gray never bothers me. I'm more entertained by the jokes I can crack shortly after the latest attack.
The joke's on me now. Last week, Amanda stopped me mid-sentence (a tough feat) to reach up and pluck a white hair out of the top of my head. I don't know how she saw it. I've always had a mix of blonde in my dark brown hair and thought she misidentified the rogue hair. She hadn't. The hair had a coarse, wiry texture. Likely, one of Amanda's hairs attacked overnight and embedded itself at my remote station, I thought.
Yesterday, Dad came up behind me and filed through my hair at random. Something caught his eye and signaled him over to investigate.
"Dude, you have gray hair," he said after a moment.
(When Dad was about 30, he grew a patch of gray hair overnight -- dead-center on the front of his hairline. The previous night he had the same black, wavy hair like always, but that morning he emerged with skunk hair. It was odd. It looked cool. It's since become his trademark look, only matched by his Letterman gap.)
Following the proclamation, Amanda and Nina joined Dad's ranks and I suddenly had a team exploring my hair. The Nina, the Guido and the Amanda Renee were on a mission to find a New World of gray.
"Dang Paolo, when did that happen?" the Nina asked.
"Ha ha! You're an old man!" said the Guido.
"I told you, Paolo. You've got more gray than I do!" said the Amanda Renee.
All three confirmed that I had hair the color of Plymouth Rock on the top of my head.
Enough with the Old World metaphors. I've got gray hair, people. No chemical bombs or defensive maneuvers for me. The forecast looks gray from here on out.