I think I have an obsession with grey hair- mine, that is. I spotted my first grey in my mid thirties and I felt such a sense of awe mixed with something I cannot name. Finally I was grey! Since then I have carefully watched for every strand of grey and lovingly noted its birth with a quiet sense of satisfaction.
But the fascination with the greys did not start with me; no, it started with my mother. She must have started going grey early too because for as long as I remember she was grey haired. She had thick luxuriant hair, generously sprinkled with grey, so much so that I had a firm belief that Mama was born grey.
In her fascination she would sit down in a comfortable place and call whoever was fortunate enough to be close by to come pull out the greys. We would pluck out grey after grey while she dozed intermittently. You would say something expecting a reply, and then realize she had dozed off! Sometimes, on a very good day, she would tell a story of something or the other while you plucked away, or she would break into song for a few minutes, and then the sleep would come again, and the head would nod its way down away from you in a mild protest at being plucked and pulled.
Mama enjoyed this ritual to no end and I used to secretly wish I had my own greys then so I could sit down and have someone pull and pluck while I dozed. Now my turn has come and television and Internet won’t let them pull and pluck for me!
Rest Mama, rest. You’ve earned it!