The beautiful war

"A-ha! I found it!"

Believe me when I say this folks, this is an expression you never want to hear from your hairdresser.

It's a little unnerving when you hear her make such an exclamation while standing behind you with a scissors in hand.

Terror sweeps over you. Your palms begin to sweat. Your heart begins to beat a little faster.

What did she find?

A bald spot?

A louse?

Carcinoma?

The piece of gum I lost after falling asleep with it in my mouth when I was three?

For cryin' out loud...What!?

The end of my youth. That's what.

In the presence of my 13-year-old daughter, my mid-life crisis kicked into full gear yesterday at the beauty shop when my hairdresser cut out a 4-inch-long gray hair from the side of my head.

Now, I've experienced grays before. Every now and then, I find a hair that has turned against me. But the one Lindsey cut from my head yesterday wasn't your ordinary, run-of-the-mill gray.

It was coarse, wiry, and without a doubt did not belong on my youthful head.

It was a militant gray.

I think it may have been the mother gray. A scout for an army of little graylings who are plotting an attack on my upcoming birthday.

I can hear their battle cry: "Let's kick her while she's down!"
I know how this will go.

Like the Nazis in World War II Europe, their quest for supremacy will not be pretty. And as I focus my attention on my head, the facist wrinkles will take advantage of the diversion and mutate my face to that of an old woman.

Divide and conquer. That's the plan.

Is there any way to win this battle?

Probably not. But that doesn't mean I'm going down without a fight.

I've enlisted the forces of L'Oreal hair color and Mary Kay wrinkle reducer.

We've already held top-secret meetings to discuss the plan of attack. The moral support they've offered has been top-notch. I'm expecting good things from this alliance.

Now, if I can only get my husband to quit calling me Grayskull.

I think he may be a spy.