For years, people have accused me of dying my hair. They don’t believe that, at my age, I don’t have any gray hair.

Well, I have a couple of things to say about that.  First, how old do you think I am, anyway?!  Geez, I mean, I don’t even have grandkids and people think I ought to have gray hair?  Okay, so maybe I am old enough to have grandkids.  Okay, so maybe I’ve been cheating a little these past few years.

I guess it’s time to ‘fess up to my little secret.  For years, if my kids found a gray hair and yanked it out, I’d pay them a dime.  It was cheaper than dye.  Plus, it felt good when they combed through my hair looking for the little buggers.  A ten-minute head massage would cost me maybe fifty cents.

Then it got to where they were much easier to find, so I lowered the payoff to a nickel.  Still, I could usually come away from it for less than a buck.

This year something happened.  I don’t know if it’s just how old I am or the fact that we have four teenagers, but I have produced a bumper crop of gray this year.  I knew I was in trouble when my youngest came in and said “Mom, I need some money … can I look for gray hair?”  In ten minutes, he had found more than fifty.

So, I was faced with a new dilemma.  To dye or not to dye.  Should I accept nature’s course and grow old gracefully?  Or should I follow in the footsteps of millions of others who laugh in the face of Father Time and, gulp, cover the gray?

Option “A” had always sounded pretty grand … until the gray was on the verge of getting out of hand.  It reminds me of “Preparation for Childbirth” classes when all the new mothers are adamant about having their babies “naturally”.  Sounds fine and dandy until the pain hits at about 3 centimeters and then they’re screaming for an epidural.

Phooey on “natural”.

So, anyway, what I’m trying to tell you is, well, I dyed my hair this week.