I wonder if there is such a thing as selective dyslexia. I just finished the book Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See, and it takes all of my brainpower not to call it Snow Flower and the Secret See by Lisa Fan. I’ve read it, I know what the title means and I certainly don’t know what a “Secret See” could be, and yet I persist. It’s sort of like something Becca (accidentally) got me thinking about this morning: the number one most common name I am called by accident is Rebecca. Does this happen to all Rachels? Is it just the R thing? But then, the next most common is Sarah, so what does that mean? Am I just Biblical, or what? Becca suggested it has something to do with spending all my time with nuns. Valid argument.
Anyway, I’m thinking all these things to distract from my latest fiasco: I have gray hair. Or hairs — two hairs, to be precise, and I don’t actually have them anymore because I ripped them out. This is frightening because not only am I emotionally six, I am physically twenty-three. Yeah, I may love cardigans and Cosby sweaters, and maybe I wish I knew how to knit, but I’m NOT ready to be a gray-haired lady. Early grayness only looks good on Steve Martin or Anderson Cooper, not me. Panic level = high.
Actually, I’m more like 32% panicking and 61% finding this funny/bizarre. These gray hairs were several inches long and both from the same spot on my head, so either I’ve been going gray for a long time and haven’t noticed (you’d tell me, right?), or else it is a fluke. Like, I have a partially-albino scalp. Or I was hit on the head very hard at one point and suffered follicle damage. I don’t remember anything like that happening, but possibly this proves it to be true. This is how scared I am of aging: I’d be more comfortable with brain damage.