I’ll never forget the morning, only weeks before her death, when she taped a hair to the bathroom mirror with a note. It was her 30th birthday–30 seemed so old to us both–and in her big gorgeous calligraphy she had written: “MY FIRST GRAY HAIR.” There’s more to this story–in some ways it’s the story of my 20s–but 15 years later it still doesn’t feel like I’ve earned the right to tell it. All I can say is every time I curse all the gray mixed into my blonde, I flash on that note–her characteristic bemusement, her breezy assumption there’d be many more to come–and I cry. Suria.
I’ll never forget the morning, only weeks before her death, when she taped a hair to the bathroom mirror with a note. It was her 30th birthday–30 seemed so old to us both–and in her big gorgeous calligraphy she had written: “MY FIRST GRAY HAIR.” There’s more to this story–in some ways it’s the story of my 20s–but 15 years later it still doesn’t feel like I’ve earned the right to tell it. All I can say is every time I curse all the gray mixed into my blonde, I flash on that note–her characteristic bemusement, her breezy assumption there’d be many more to come–and I cry. Suria.