I have my mother’s hair and knobby-knuckled hands, and my father’s eyes and skin. In very dry weather, my hands tend to crack at the joints and at the edges of the tips of my fingers where my nails stop their protection. I have never had delusions of becoming a hand model. This year especially, lotion and I are waging a war against aridity and hand sanitizer.
Last week I noticed three, four, (or was it five?) gray hairs: Delicate white sitting among the mousy brown, perhaps like a ptarmigan just starting to change color for the season — but in the mirror my head did not look nearly as beautiful as a wild ptarmigan might.
With horror I realized yesterday evening that I could not see the road signs clearly until I had approached closer — akin to that of a computer screen distance from my eyeballs. I think my brain has forgotten how to focus further than that. Thank goodness roadsigns are standardized according to color and shape. Plus, I know where to turn and what the speed limit is — and I doubted any of that information had changed since the last time I was able to read the large lettered signs. Never before have I noticed such a dramatic change in my vision, not since the day my parents took me to pick up my new beautiful red frames. When I put on those new ‘80s specs, the ground shifted. I had had no idea the floor was where it actually was.
What a year so far.
I think tonight I will rub another layer of lotion into my hands and practice not looking at a screen. Maybe, just perhaps, that will help me not see any more silver among the brown for a very long, stress-free time…
Battling this dry air is a bear. We feel it, too. As for white hairs, embrace them; each earns you another ounce of respect.
I love your take on white hairs!