Careful What You Wish For

A few nights ago Tricia and I were in the bathroom getting ready for bed. Engaged in the nightly choreography of brushing, spitting, and rinsing from the same sink she suddenly reached down and snatched something from the top of my head.

"Ha," she yelled with a sudden smile. "A gray hair!"

There, standing tall between her thumb and index finger, was a single white hair.

I reached up for my head as though expecting to find a gaping hole where the hair had come from.

"Is that mine?" I asked.

"Yes!" she said, almost too quickly.

I looked at her, down at the hair, and then back up again.

"Huh."

I went right back to rinsing my mouth out. I don't think this was quite the reaction Tricia was hoping for. However, she was content to have me finally come on board in the journey toward not only getting older but looking it as well.

I really don't mind. I'll take it as it comes. I imagine many men would hope to grow into a look of great wisdom. A distinguished older gentleman, perhaps. Not me, though. I hope that in my old age I come to look a lot like Andy Rooney: angry scowl, hairs sticking out from my nose and ears, and eyebrows covering the upper portion of my face like a wiry valance.

Then she'll rue the day she celebrated that first gray hair!