A white hair.
Right there on my forehead, in the middle of my bangs, front and center. Standing at attention. Brazenly, really. "I can't believe I have a white hair!" I squealed at The Spawn, who were all irritated at my antics.
"What's the big deal, Mom? You're pretty no matter what," said Spawn#1. My heart melted.
"Yeah Mom, you pretty!" chimed in Spawn#3.
"Mom, you are as pretty as the flowers on that tree that I want for my birthday," said Spawn#2. She's an odd one, but it was a sweet sentiment none the less.
I continued driving, but I couldn't get that damn white hair out of my thoughts. I'm only 32! I thought. Do people get white hair at 32? What the hell is going on? This isn't fair!
And you know what- I have no idea why I am freaking out over a white hair. If you know Not Blessed Mama in real life, you would know that vain is not a word that could be used to describe me. Hell, I don't even brush my hair half of the time- so why would a little white hair bother me? (Or three- I knew that sucker had to have friends hiding in there somewhere, so I went on a white hair witch hunt as soon as I got home- after angrily texting my mom to complain about my faulty genes.)
I wish I had some wisdom to impart here, or some story about how I saw the light and am no longer afraid of my three white hairs. But I don't- and I don't know why. I wanted to pull those suckers out and be done with it, but that felt like cheating. I feel like I need to keep those white hairs and rock them as a badge of honor. But god dammit, I'm 32! Almost every time I walk by the mirror, I go searching for that little rogue and his buddies. I stare intently, wondering how that little hair wound up on my head- I keep thinking he belongs somewhere else, with someone else.
Oh well. At least I'll get a discount at IHOP.
One of you whipper snappers get me my cane!