Silver StreaksIssue: Section:
The first gray hair is a shock. One coarse unforgiving harbinger of the decline to come. With relief it is deposited in the bin or burned as a warning to all that come after. But like a noxious weed they return tenfold, hell bent on destruction of the once black mane they have attacked. The next look in the mirror reveals that this is a losing battle. Time and age are against you and before long there will be no avoiding the mark of age. There is a moment when you consider a dodgy dye job to hide the truth, borrow a few more years of perceived youth, and were you a woman, this would serve as a fix. But you are a man and no matter how much color thrown at the invasive species there is no hiding the truth which blooms with every stubble on the chin, every sideburn that sprouts. The beard is the giveaway. So you embrace the gray. Friends tell you it is sexy on a man and you use that to spin the horror of your new reflection into something manageable. When wearing a suit you shift into your Clooney, suave and established, stroking the gray chin in mature confidence, like a badge of honor earned from years of charming interaction. When playing sports it becomes your Favre. Rugged and strong, a silver stubbled quarterback to guide your team through these declining years. But there is a nagging voice in your head, the truth. You are not George even on a good day, no you are just gray. And besides sharing an indecisive mind with Brett, you bear no resemblance to the travelled pro bowler.
A return to the mirror confirms what you've tried to hide, avoid, deny.
You have become.....