It presented itself for the first time out-of-the-‘black’. Well, partly black. Brown towards the end, especially when they collide with the sunrays. Its entry was, however, not too grand. I guess it was used to not having a great reception. Hence, the diffidence.
That night, like all others, I was running that brush through the nooks and corners looking for possible hiders; like an obedient child, crammed with the importance of oral hygiene yet failing to save itself from the overdue root canal. I stood in front of that bowl — marble and about decuple the size of a bowl — casually stroking my hair when I found a shiny strand, hiding among the other drab ones, trying its best to lay undiscovered. I stopped mid-brush and stroked the hair over the left hemisphere one more time. There it was, now discovered, yet shrinking. I smiled, not necessarily welcomingly, and continued brushing. Another appeared a few days later, and then another a few more days after. They were now like conquistadors. However, it was different here. I was giving-in easily.
On occasions, I could recall having a light conversation with my peers about discolouration but admittedly, did not know that it would be this soon. I am still a couple of years short of half the average life span of a woman in my country; this really was surprising. And not because I have a thing against these shiny conquerors but because for someone who is very particular about her health, this invasion was too soon. I mean from what you hear you need to stub out at least two a day in order for this to happen. I had stomped on zero. If anything, I did everything right to make them always stay the way they are, only just a little longer. I have a head full of pride, however, on the verge of discolouration. I think sooner or later you have to accept that it is time; mine is here and I am going to be as loyal to these friends as they have been to me, chalky or not.
And it is not just these colonizers that have started ringing alarm bells; even the two knolls above these lashes. Their jet-black strands have started going haywire over the eyelids. They grow in places and leave the others like a king conquering only specific parts. I ignore them for a while. And then for a while longer. Just what I do, until there comes a point where having them removed would hurt. Not that I do not enjoy this separation, but somehow I am tearful and these little mischiefs ensure that.
I believe this is the time in my life when I do not really care much and perhaps this is how it was supposed to be. You grow old and you leave it alone; you just let it be.
