White ones, actually. Long, shiny, out of place — when I pull them out, it seems they’re made of some different material than the rest of my follicle dwellers. There aren’t many; most people either never notice or never mention them. But I catch one in the mirror every once in a while, chuckle to myself, and think, “That didn’t use to be there!”
I don’t mind, really. Eventually, life marching as it does, I know that the White Hair Army — the White Stripes, if you will — is going to slowly but surely gain territory on my head. The Receding Hair Corps may launch it’s own assault. Maybe I’ll dye my hair someday, or try Just For Men, or Rogaine. Maybe I’ll sculpt the most awesome white mohawk the world has ever known. You never know.
Today, I turn 26. A friend of mine just asked me, “How does it feel to be over the quarter-century mark?”
“Feels good,” I told him. Not that it feels different than 25, or 19, or 11. The way I think about birthdays may have changed, and maybe I notice some things that are different about myself now than they used to be — a few white fibers up top, for instance — but those things are circumstancial. Life is Life. “Twenty-six” is an idea, a number ascribed to people who have been alive for a certain amount of time, a number complete with social expectations of what that person might be like. Does ascribing that number 26 to myself change who I am? Am I any different than I was yesterday because the 25 became a 26?
What about if I turn 30? Or 60? Or 90? Do I change, or does the number?
So many people dread birthdays, especially as they age. They harbor this fear that having a new number attached to their identities will somehow make them worse than they were before, that the turning of age itself will change their lives in a tangible way. Perhaps it’s because our society glorifies the young and shies away from the old. Perhaps it’s because we fear Death.
We all know deep down that we will get older. That our hair will go gray. That at some point, our youth and health will fail us. That we won’t be here forever.
But those are not things to fear! Those things are contingent aspects of Life. We start aging from the moment we’re born. To fear that is to fear the natural order of things.
Every birthday is something to celebrate. The numbers merely serve to give us perspective. Like mile markers on a highway, all they do is tell us how far we’ve been; they do not change the road. What matters much more than the numbers is taking the time to appreciate that you’re still here. Still kickin‘ — even if you can’t kick like you used to.
I have known a number of people whose highways were, based on the average, very short. They stopped at Mile Seven. Mile 13. Mile 20. Mile 22. Mile 23.
Knowing that, how can I ever be upset about a birthday? From my perspective, it is a blessing to have passed the Quarter Century Exit on the winding road that is my life. It is a blessing to be able to discover gray hairs on my head. If they all fall out someday, it will be a blessing to be here for that, too.
I’m thrilled to be 26. Here’s to 27!
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