Driving and Hairy Moments

I suppose I should consider myself lucky. Until two weeks ago, I did not have one single gray hair. I confess I’ve been doing the highlighting thing for, oh, maybe 25 years now, but I swear, not to cover up anything. I just like the blonde streaks in summer, the transition to red around the holidays, returning occasionally to the mahogany tones closer to what I was born with. And last month, I even asked Pam, my “stylist”, if she had ever seen any gray hairs on me, as she expertly weaved my still youthful looking locks into aluminum foils slathered with the hair hue du jour. And she said no, never. She looked sincere to me.

Then two weeks ago, boinnnnggggg! there it was. A single strand of crazy gray. You couldn't miss it.

It should be mentioned that this unwanted gray intruder appeared within a day of my second son receiving his driver’s license. Not his permit, his license. The little laminated thing that says it’s legal for his lanky unshaven heartbreakingly beautiful 16-year old self to operate a two and a half ton vehicle on any road in this state—nay, in this country—without the benefit of parental—or indeed any—supervision. The fact that his is classified as a “junior license”—in my state that means he can’t be driving after 11:00 p.m. – provides no comfort. The fact that he drove uneventfully with his learners permit for eight months, and that he’s been driving himself to crew practice, at rush hour, by himself, every day without incident since he got the junior license, provides no comfort.

The rational me, the realistic me, his mother, knows he must learn, and the only way to learn is by doing, so I let him go.

Here’s what happens:

Noah: I’m going to practice, Mom.

Me: OK, careful backing out of the garage. Don’t take off my side mirror.

Noah: I’ll try not to. (He grabs the keys off the mantle.)

Me: Drive safely.

Noah: I will.

He’s two feet out the door. I’m five feet behind him.

Me: Stop signs. Red lights.

Noah: Don’t worry, Mom. I will. Bye.

And off he goes. I look up at the sky and say a silent prayer to Mary. You know, the mother of God? I figure she’s got the power. Keep him safe, I think. Then immediately I feel guilty about not praying for each of my other kids, not praying for the family in my neighborhood who had a recent tragedy, not praying for the people of Darfur. I say a catch-all Hail Mary and figure She’ll get the message.

And then I’m in my bathroom and this crazy wiry grayish whitish hair is sprouting out of my otherwise nicely coiffed head, like some noncompliant mental patient. It will not be subdued. Conventional wisdom says don’t pull it out, or two others will grow in its place. As if I have the power to limit my total gray hair count to one, just by letting it be. I have to acknowledge I can’t control it, any more than I can control my kids growing up. I face the facts. There is more driving to come, and more gray hairs.