A Gray Hair Where No Gray Hair Should Be

There's no way to dress up this next sentence. Yesterday morning, there was a gray hair sticking out of my left nostril. Unfortunately, I didn't see it right away. I went through my usual routine of getting ready for work, heading out the door, commuting in and beginning my day. It wasn't until about 3 hours into the morning when I got a glimpse of myself in the men's room mirror that I noticed it. A little reminder of my advancing years just sticking out for the world to see.

You wouldn't think one gray hair would be a big deal. After all, it's not like I don't have other grays. My head has a few scattered throughout my hair and there are some gray chest hairs among the brown ones. But this one was COMING OUT OF MY NOSE. That's very upsetting. It makes you wonder just how many more might be in there, hidden and waiting for their chance to make the journey down my nostrils and out into the open air.

What do you do about a gray nose hair? There's no hair-dye for them. The makers of Just for Men have yet to create Just For Nostril Hair. And Heather Locklear or Sarah Jessica Parker never suggested buying Preference by L'Oreal because your nose is worth it.

Of course, common sense says pluck out the one offensive hair. Right? That's not so simple. There are problems with plucking. There's the understanding that, once a hair is plucked, it grows back thicker and stronger. I'm not sure I want a thicker, stronger gray hair in my nose. And what if the non-plucked hairs decide to get revenge for their elderly friend who's been pulled out and tossed away? What is nose hair capable of when really pissed off? And how ridiculous is it that these are the questions going through my head while I'm standing in a men's room staring up into my nostrils?

I blame Sister A for this nose hair quandary. Sister A was my sixth-grade teacher in Catholic elementary school. She was one of those strangely angry nuns that seemed to resent spending her life around children, so she did everything possible to make her students hate her. For example, when Sister M's sixth-grade class across the hall was going on a trip to an amusement park, Sister A informed us that our trip was going to be a tour of the local library down the block. At holiday time Sister A, apparently a frustrated playwright, made us perform "Christmas Joy" a play that she had written herself. My part of this "play" was called Recipe for a Happy Christmas. My 11-year old, beginning puberty self had to stand behind a desk that was covered in bowls, mixing spoons and measuring cups while reciting lines like "You take 1 cup of God's love and mix it with 2 cups of winter joy..." I really disliked Sister A.

Anyway, Sister A enjoyed giving angry lectures. Lots of them. She'd rant about the length of girls' skirts, shout that lipstick was for 'bad girls' and scream that the boys should stay away from the girls and only play with the other boys. (OK, I thought that one was a good rule.) Often, she'd suddenly slam her books down on the desk and start berating R, the shyest girl in the class. I have no memory of R ever doing a thing out of line, other than being an easy target for a hostile nun. It still makes me wince when I remember how many times R was reduced to tears in that classroom. Well, one day, Sister A flew into a rage over nostril hair. (See? We're back on topic.) Apparently, she had witnessed someone plucking out a nose hair and became deeply offended. "God put those hairs there for a reason!" She bellowed. "He doesn't approve of us pulling them out!" Sister A really needed to be locked up somewhere. That woman had issues.

It all comes down to this. In the men's room yesterday, I wasn't just looking at a gray nose hair. I was looking at a gray nose hair coated in Catholic-guilt placed into my head by an angry, unbalanced woman thirty five years ago. And that brings up one of the good things about getting older. You can take these remembrances from the past, evaluate them, keep what you need and throw the rest away. My 11-year old self might have had to endure the rantings of a crazy woman, but my 46-year old self has choices.

So, while remembering Sister A, a woman who should never have been allowed into a classroom, I pulled that little gray sucker out. Completely guilt-free.