i feel so symbolic...

Sha la la la la la la la.

Last Friday, I hit the 31 week mark on my pregnancy. I spent the vast majority of the weekend doing one of two things: learning about the labor and delivery process and the even scarier plucking of gray hairs out of my scalp.

Since I found out I was pregnant last July, I've noticed that the number of gray hairs on my head has multiplied exponentially. Like, if I take the tweezers to just one, four thousand come to its funeral. I have several theories behind this enemy influx, most of which I am going to boldly share with you now.

Theory A: I am 32 years old. My mother recently told me that the Rice side of the family tends to go gray early. Well, even though that's just a bunch of unfair hooey, I guess I can't control it.

Theory B: Something scientific related to pregnancy hormones...yada yada yada...causes one's hair to actually remain intact during one's time with child. Lord knows my hair was thick enough when I was shedding massive quantities each day during a blow dry. So, maybe I'm simply not losing as many (gray) strands as I was pre-pregnancy? Maybe? (If you want the real scoop about the estrogen, read this.)

Theory C: I'm terrified of the ghost texter that lives in our house. Yes, it's true. Matt and I have recently started hearing a short (yet very ominous!) vibration that sounds like an iPhone receiving a text. In fact, I heard it just this morning as I sat on our stairs, attempting to tie my shoelaces. But, my phone was nowhere near me! I'm so scared by this notion of a paranormal electronic device user that my fear is illustrated via my new hair color. Sounds logical, right?

Tomorrow, I have a hair appointment where my stylist will wash that gray right outta my hair. Or chemically process it away. Whatever. But, I am still concerned with the renewed spirit with which it grows. How can I possibly keep up with its swiftness? I can't afford to have my hair colored more frequently! Yet, how can I face the world, with only three decades and some change of experience under my belt, sporting a crop of rebel grays? As if I'm fifteen years wiser than I actually am? The horror!

Alas, until I find a solution, I suppose there's nothing left to do but find myself a gray guitar and play. And feel so symbolic. Sha la la la la la la la.