The second gray hair [is silver]

The first one didn’t bother me when I found it in the mirror a few months ago. It was a fluke, I assured myself—a trick of the poor lighting, my imagination, perhaps even a very blonde hair. (Remember, I’m someone who doesn’t believe something until it’s inarguably in front of my face.) I summarily pulled the single gray strand out by the root and thought no more of it.

And then, last week, the second one showed up. And this one bothered me, more than the first one had. In the same way that being 31 bothered me a tiny bit more than being 30— “in my 30s” was worse, and finding gray “hairs” was infinitely worse.

It was undeniably gray, sprouting right from the line of my part on my scalp, in the most noticeable and obvious place on my head. I’m not sure why it offended me so. I haven’t lived under the delusion of immortality for many years; before my junior year of college, I’d lost two close friends—to cancer and a drunk driver. I’ve been well aware for a couple of decades now that we all come to an end someday, often sooner than expected. I thought for a long time that my time would come sooner than expected.

Perhaps that’s why the gray hair is so foreign and wrong to me… You see, I spent the first half of my 20s firmly convinced that I would die at 25. I never had any inkling why I thought this, never had a vision about what would cause my demise, but I was filled with a growing certainty that my future would be relatively short. Perhaps it was just my irresponsible way of excusing my typical 20s stupidity—too many late nights, not enough sleep, not enough exercise, unhealthy diet, etc. I had to fit in as much living as I could, right? My days were numbered. I didn’t need to waste time taking care of myself.

And then the “final” year came and went. My 26th birthday sneaked up on me, and then without any drama it was past and I was still alive. I was rather surprised, as you can imagine. Had I misunderstood the impression I’d had? Was that 25-year milestone merely an approximate end date? I waited, and survived. For many more years, in fact.

Now here I am in my late 30s, feeling the effects of those years I’ve accumulated and finding gray hairs, plural. Me, who wasn’t even supposed to make it into my 30s. Me, who now, suddenly, must take care of myself and eat right and try to exercise more and appreciate each day.

I’m pretty glad I was wrong. Think of all I would have missed—not just these pesky gray strands, but also my husband, my child, my salvation and the opportunities to make things better around me. I hope I can always see those gray hairs as silver—the silver lining of being given more time than I’d anticipated.

Buzz, buzz

Ah, temperatures in the 90s—they prompt unscheduled ice cream breaks, more water consumption, horrific laziness, mole-like huddling in air-conditioned spaces, and serious haircuts.

Like the one shown here.

It’s on my kid’s head. We cut his hair just two days ago, and already I have found many occasions to rub his head, kiss it, pat it, etc. To have a little buzzed human head in your presence is delightful. I notice I’m not the only one; others want to rub his buzzy head, too. It’s irresistible.

And I spend minutes just studying the shape of a human skull. I do this with all buzzed, shaved, or bald heads. The human head is a strange, beautiful thing to behold. You know that underneath the exposed skin, there’s that massive, heavy bone structure to protect the incredible computer within. And yet, a shorn or hairless head seems so vulnerable, especially when viewed from behind. Those two little tendons you can see in the neck, the bumpy skin, the suddenly obvious flaws or scars or birthmarks, the little whorls of hair growth, the surface reminiscent of that on a distant planet. It’s fascinating.

I didn’t want to cut my boy’s hair this year, was getting way too attached to his pretty blonde locks. But the heat forced my hand, and I’m so glad it did. It reminded me to appreciate this overlooked and underappreciated orb.

Now you all really think I’m a freak, don’t you. It’s okay. You suspected as much.

The old yellow cat, he ain't what he used to be

This cat of ours is getting kind of old. And crotchety. And demanding.

Sam used to be a low-maintenance pet. I found him at the pound in Erie, he ate whatever I fed him, whenever he felt like it (he always had dry food in a bowl), and he slept a lot and basically liked being left alone most of the time. He was, in fact, an ideal pet for a lazy, busy person who isn’t home a lot—which I was for many years. (I’m still lazy.)

Then he had that issue with his parts, and he couldn’t pee: he was a “plugged tom” (although his parts were altered long before I ever got him, and he’s no tomcat, I know). I rushed him to the vet and they unplugged him and assigned him to special, low-ash dry food that could only be purchased at the vet’s, for a small fortune. Of course, I paid for it. He was my baby. I didn’t want him to get re-plugged and die. It was a small price, really, for my best friend.

And then the plugged thing happened again, more recently (after Todd had entered my life), and we suffered through waiting at the vet’s for the doctors to do their work, wincing each time we heard Sam’s pained cries through the thin walls; it was awful. To make it worse, I was pregnant at the time, so I was a bit of a wreck to begin with. The vets managed to work their magic again, and this time we were scolded for feeding him dry food (huh?) and told that for the remainder of his life, he’d need to be on special vet-purchased wet food, which just happens to be—say it with me, now—even more expensive. To make it worse, we learned that the cat was overweight, so we'd need to start feeding him small amounts twice each day.

He never lets us forget his meal time. Groan.

I purchased that silly vet-approved food, for a short time. Then I found out that Frisky’s offers a competitive type of food, available at supermarkets, for much less money. So, I figured that would be a livable compromise: Sam still gets the wet food, and I can still afford to feed my husband and kid, too.

Then, the puking began happening a short time after the kiddo was born, which makes it awfully hard to determine whether the cat really has developed digestive issues, or is simply suffering from jealousy issues. He does seem to get sick more often when his hair is long… hence the stupid, pricey haircuts he gets 2 or 3 times each year. Which is what leads me to write this post: I was awakened shortly after 5:00am this morning by the lovely echoes of cat regurgitation. And he just had a haircut last week, as you all know from that silly picture I shared with you in a recent post.

So, maybe it’s just the under-layer of fluffy, loose hair that’s making him sick. Or perhaps, just perhaps, he enjoys watching one of us come hurtling out of our bedroom, half asleep, muttering oaths under our breath as we turn on lights and frantically search for the nasty spot on the rug, or furniture, or steps… I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s never forgiven us for bringing someone else into the little love triangle we had going on.

Worst of all, he wants attention now—all the time. He’ll still disappear for hours, but it’s only after he’s begged for a lap, meowed ceaselessly for more food at an unassigned time, rubbed incessantly against the nearest ankle, been chased by the boy only to return for more punishment, and has generally gotten underfoot several times, especially in the kitchen when I’m moving boiling hot items. Then I yell, or nudge him with a foot, or he tires of being tormented by the small person, and he retreats to hidden places.

And I feel sad that his world has been forever turned upside down. But mostly, I feel annoyed. And then guilty. And then disgusted at my own sappy nature—because honestly, if I hadn’t taken him from that shelter in the first place, he may not even be alive now. He gets healthy food, and a warm home, and haircuts that cost more than mine, and plenty of soft cozy places to sleep. And I remind myself that he is, after all, a beast. MY beast, yes, but a beast nonetheless. Sorry, animal lovers. Kids change everything.