A gray head means a chance to live your life
To some, gray is a four-letter word, a color to be fended off at all costs. To me, gray calls to mind another four-letter word: gift, as in time.
To some, gray is a four-letter word, a color to be fended off at all costs.
To me, gray calls to mind another four-letter word: gift, as in time.
In the end, it's all a matter of perspective.
As a youthful-looking 23-year-old, I decided to grow a mustache in November 1979 to give myself a more adult appearance. It seemed to take weeks, but, eventually, the brown whiskers formed a solid covering, which has remained unshaven since.
In the ensuing decades, brown has slowly given way to gray. I get a daily reminder when I shave, and the gray whiskers fall like snowflakes into the sink.
Gray has crept into my sideburns and into my hair, although the latter is less noticeable due to baldness and a receding hairline, which remove the brown and gray on an equal basis.
Having just turned 60, I've come to accept the gray as a beacon of another day.
That's because my dad never had to worry about his close-cropped brown hair going gray. He died of a heart attack in May 1965, two weeks before his 42d birthday.
He never got to see me or my older sister become adults, let alone graduate from high school or reach our teenage years, while I've been able to see my two daughters go off to college.
He and my mom enjoyed only 13 years of marriage together, while my wife, Elizabeth, and I celebrated our silver anniversary last year.
As a Phillies fan, he never got to see his hometown team win a World Series; I witnessed two celebrations on the field and parades along Broad Street in 1980 and 2008.
Gray reminds me that I've gotten the chance to grow older, to make the best of the time I have left. It's an opportunity not everyone gets.
Lose the gray or let it stay? I'll take the latter. Color me an optimist.
Tom Wilk is a former Inquirer copy editor and coauthor, with Jim Waltzer, of "Tales of South Jersey: Profiles and Personalities."