Sarah Nigbor

I was looking in the mirror not long ago and noticed a few gray strands of hair peeking through the blonde. Aha, I thought. You have arrived. I immediately made an appointment with my friend and hairstylist Bridgett. It’s time to cover them up so I can pretend they’re not there.

My grandma Thelma died at age 96 with hardly a gray hair on her head. She never dyed her hair because my grandpa wouldn’t allow it, or so she said. I hope I inherit those genetics. Her hair was a pretty light brown with a few silvers sprinkled here and there when she died.

My husband is almost completely gray. When I met him 11 years ago, his hair was a luscious brown. I blame our four children for the decline in pigmentation. Frankly, I’m surprised I don’t have more grays. Maybe that’s Grandma’s genetics at work, keeping them at bay.

Our kids range in age from 13-19. The oldest is away at college, so I can’t really blame him for being the cause of too much stress. We got no calls in the night asking for bail money and his grades were good, so that’s a win there.

The other three more than make up for their brother’s absence. I love them dearly, but there’s a reason that I sometimes lock myself in the bathroom for some “me” time.
My daughter recently begged me to dye her hair blue. It’s definitely not my choice for hair color, and I wasn’t thrilled with the decision, but I gave in. My grandparents would be mortified, but I try to pick my battles. She actually did a pretty nice job of dying it herself, which took a lot of patience. What she wasn’t so great at was getting it all over the bathroom. Luckily, we have a very ugly, 70s style bathroom complete with a blue seashell motif that I can’t wait to demo and remodel. The blue hair dye droplets all over the sink, shower and floor almost match the décor. Almost.

Dawson, the 17-year-old, is famous for waiting until 10 p.m. Sunday night to remember that his laundry needs to be done. There has also never been a more persnickety teen when it comes to clothes. God forbid I commit the mortal sin of putting a white shirt (gasp) in a color load. He even gave me specific instructions on how he wanted the stain spray distributed on his socks! Yes, he can do his own laundry, but I’m a sucker and if I’m up late working, I let him go to bed and do his laundry for him.

He also recently gave me very detailed instructions on the color shorts he wanted at the store, plus the fact that they needed to have the little vee-cut on the side, like a little half-slit. When asked why, he said it gives him more air. Really? And guess what. The three pairs I bought did not pass his inspection approval. Guess who’s getting money for his birthday to go buy his own?

And I can’t forget about little, innocent 15-year-old Lincoln. When quizzing him for his upcoming citizenship test at school, I was kindly reminded why I chose not to become a teacher. The impatience bubbling up in me when he missed a question that should be obvious made me want to scream. He was more absorbed in looking out the window hoping for a cowbird to come along that he could go shoot with his .22. I hounded him all weekend to study. I would have had more success trying to fly to Mars. I apologize in advance to his teacher.

And let’s not forget the time Carolina sprayed me in the face (while driving) with Windex, the time Ethan fell about 20 feet out of a tree, when Dawson wept from the indignity of being forced to eat a tomato (about 20 times), when Lincoln used to scream at the top of his lungs in the car to see if I would get scared, or countless other things over the years that have contributed to these insufferable gray hairs.

Since I love the kids and plan to keep them, it’s off to the salon for me.