Luky
IN FRONT of the mirror years ago I was startled to discover seven gray hairs.
Under the circumstances I was grateful I would be celebrating my fortieth birthday a few months from then.
For years people had thought me older than I was.
Sometimes, when discussing ages, I mentioned mine, and that swift look of surprise followed by blank politeness forcibly reminded me of people's astonishment during my pregnancies, when I looked nine months pregnant four months before the happy event was due.
I was looking forward to my fortieth birthday because I would then be able to tell people vaguely that I was in my forties, which can mean any age up to forty-nine.
Surely I didn't look older than that!
Happiness
Every year our children went to a Christmas tree at the mine where their father worked.
The two eldest no longer qualified for presents but they came along to keep us company.
Now that my son was at boarding school I seldom got that glorious feeling I have when I see them all together.
So when we were all at the Christmas party, everybody clean and neat, I had a song in my heart.
True, my husband was still in hospital at the time, having landed back there with thrombosis the day after I was so rapturous about his return home, but the specialist had assured me that he was making good progress and that he'd certainly be home in time for Christmas.
Looking at my children, I thought of those lovely words in the wedding service: "Thy wife like a fruitful vine, thy children like olive branches around thy table", and my heart swelled with joy.
I might have known it wouldn't last long.
"Those your grandchildren, Luky?" asked a girl who worked in a different department, and therefore knew me only superficially.
"Go on", I said, "those are my children."
Instant forgiveness
Being the world's worst dropper of clangers I never get cross when anyone drops one on my own feet.
On the contrary, I immediately have a great feling of cameraderie for such a person and wonder if she will spend the next ten years lying awake nights blushing in the dark and firmly deciding never again to open her mouth, the way I would in her place.
Not so
Nos so my colleague, however.
"Ha, ha!" she hooted derisively, holding her finger to her nose and winking an eye. "Tell me another!"
I looked across at my little band, seated around a wooden table and looking slightly grimy by now after the afternoon's dissipations.
"Really, they are my children", I reiterated helplessly, feeling the more upset because I had been awfully faithful to my diet and my nightly skin care.
Were my efforts at rejuvenating my appearance doomed to failure forever?
Why for heaven's sake did she think my third youngest, for example, was my grandchild?
He was born when I was twenty-nine.
If he were my grandson we'd have belonged in the Guinness book of records.
"All I can say, Luky, is you have a lively sense of humour", my erstwhile friend concluded appreciatively.
"Surely you're older than I"
"Why, how old are you?"
Miffed
"Forty-four."
Though it galls me to admit it, circumstances being what they were, I must say she didn't look a day over thirty-six.
I said goodbye somewhat stiffly and rejoined my olive branches gathered round about the wooden table.
It's taking me a while fully to forgive her, but I'm still working on it.
As for the seven grey hairs, they could have multiplied to seventy times seven for all I cared.
I was casehardened by then.
There are worse things than looking older than one's age.
I'm going scarlet
In fact, I was quite looking forward to turning completely grey.
With my red hair I always felt compelled to wear only greens, blues and browns.
Once I was quite grey on top, I planned to start wearing scarlets, oranges and shocking pinks.
Mind you, with my luck, people would then call me mutton dressed up as lamb.
My mother sometimes tried to console me with a Dutch saying: "Vroeg oud, lang jong"*. What I want to know is, just how long do you have to be vroeg oud before you can start becoming lang jong?
Catherine Nicolette
I was forty-seven when I saw my first gray hair in the mirror.
Without thinking I pulled it out.
My normal blonde hair had come out a very odd and different colour.
It must have been an aberrant hair, a mistake. I wasn't thinking, you see.
Inside my head I'm still seventeen; no, maybe eighteen come to think of it.
Au naturel
After I had whipped out more over the next few weeks the penny finally dropped. Yup. No mistake.
The years were ticking on.
If I hadn't realised that fact and just left the graying hair brigade alone, I would have ended up bald.
I always believed I would quite happily let my hair go its joyous way when the time came.
Au naturel and all that. Glorious hair in the mature section of the family has always been the norm.
Ouma had Iceland snow hair effortlessly twisted in a Grecian knot, upon which she would wear an elegant hat with an eye veil.
My aunts elegantly frosted.
Mom has eye-catching silver fox hair with a slightly soft tint to it; people still ask hairdressers to tint their hair her colour.
The effect of my proud locks upon my appearance just prompted people to ask me if I was feeling ill.
Eventually I had to face facts; I was not going to follow the proud family tradition of being La belle maturité.
These days
These days I quite like my frosting hair. When the henna grows out enough at the hairline for me to see them.
*Early old, long young.
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