Tweezer in hand, I ran from the bathroom to my living room couch. My friend was finishing up the Thai food, staring at my Mac, surfing the web on my ultra-slow, ultra-stolen wireless connection.
“Here.” I handed him the tweezer and pouted.
“Uhhh, Catherine. You’re scaring me.”
“I saw a gray hair on the side of my head when I was brushing my teeth. Take it out.”
My hair was propped up on top of my head in a ponytail bun.
He sighed. “I don’t see it.”
“You’re not looking. It’s right around here.” I pointed to the area. “It’s small. Over around here.”
“Oh, yeah I see it. A lot of other hairs are around it though. You should probably just leave it alone.”
“I don’t fucking care if you pull out ten other strands along with it. Just pluck it out, alright?”
He reached in carelessly and yanked. I could feel one of my strands getting plucked, but not at the root.
“There you go.”
“Uhhhh. You didn’t get the root. Fucker. I’m going to make you pluck it out again next time it resurfaces.”
I should count myself lucky. My family has a history of gray hair in their late twenties. Salt and pepper. I just have a strand or two…very rarely…but sometimes in the pubic area. I know, disgusting.