I Found One Strand Of White Hair On My Head
On Signs for Daphne
I wonder what drew you to this rant? The title? You’re wondering what’s so special about aging but is this really aging? Or maybe you’re just curious.
Well…
Today, I found a strand of white, not grey, white hair on my head. It was short, about 3cm long. The first thing that came to my mind was panic. My heart skipped a beat. The next was fear.
Am I growing old? Duh! Of course you’re growing older. But no, I’m young, biologically I mean. I’m not referencing my old soul here. Physically, I’m only in my early twenties but not for long as it stands. Time is a cruel mistress. After ruling out the age factor, I settled into the surprisingly calm realization of the stress factor. I AM STRESSED.
I recently found a way around the physical stress. This one is psychological.
Whenever I cross people’s minds these past few months, or I react to their WhatsApp status or I post something on mine, they ask,
“Daphne, how are you?”
I really hate replying to this particular question with outright lies like, “I’m fine, you?” or white lies like, “I’ll be fine, thank you.” So what do I do? I run from WhatsApp to avoid seeing or having to confront this question. In other news, someone recently laughed at my phone call anxiety. Don’t give him hate, I chose not to.
The truth is, I am not fine. I pretend to be, but even doing that has become such a chore. At the same time, I really don’t want to say the ‘why’s’ because most times, I also do not know the ‘why’s’. For those whom I can’t afford to lie to or ignore their concern for me because I wouldn’t be able to live with the uneasiness if I did, I tell them,
“I’m hanging in there. I’m holding on. I thank God for life. I’m alive. I’m breathing.”
Does this mean I don’t want people to ask me? Not really. I think it means I may not be in the right state of mind for follow-up questions. I think it’s high time, “I’m not fine” is normalized as a valid answer, because it is more often than not, the truly honest answer.
Now back to my white strand of hair. I wonder if she’s lonely in a sea of jet-black sisters. If like me, she feels like a lone ranger, who has been forced to exist in this moment before she’s ready. I twirl her around my finger for a bit, staring at her through the mirror. She is not completely different; she has the same loose S curl as the others but in a different hue. What brought her here?
My life has taken some huge turns in just a few months and even though I tell myself I’ve adjusted, I know it’s all just self-deceit. I moved to a new city and it’s been hard. It’s my first time here. Maybe I should have gone to Akwa-Ibom instead. After all, the city is no stranger to me, or stayed back in Ibadan where I was born. The smell of ink is strangely intoxicating. My nose is only a few inches away from this paper I’m writing on. And now that I’ve derailed to this randomness, let’s get back on track.
In this new city, I know more than eight individuals, mostly old friends, and yet it feels like I’m too much of a stranger. The newness translates into stress, the loneliness does too, and the difficulties do the same; the perfect recipe for a stress-induced hair makeover.
I recently caught myself starting to wear a mask to camouflage my big, loud, and wild emotions. I never learn. Nothing is working out. The monotony which marks my day keeps my eyelids open at night and I worry, another ingredient in the recipe. I worry about how my sighs seem heavier than normal and I worry that I’ve not cried yet. I’m not counting the one brought on by my dysmenorrhea.
I find myself struggling with my regrets and they weigh me down. What is my white hair telling me?
“Breathe? Exhale? Shut down? Scream? Glare? Hiss? Switch off? Zone out? Grieve? Lose? Mourn? Appreciate? Complain? Remember? Forget? Reach in? Search? Hold on? Let go? Knit, crochet? Write letters, burn them? Withdraw?”
Really, I don’t know.
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