Why yes, you can eat my necklace. If I let you.

Seriously, you guys, this crop of roots is getting too gray to ignore. Right?

Of course, I’m not actually ignoring it, since I’m taking a picture of my roots every couple of weeks and showing the world, but you know what I mean. If I don’t erase the gray soon, I’ll be…a gray-haired lady.

Goodness. What a thought.

I'm not kidding, here. It's spreading at an alarming rate, all over.

The other day I was shopping at Market of Choice in Eugene, where many upscale, well-dressed ladies seem to gather for conversation, organic coffee and spelt scones in the bakery every morning. I noticed two beautiful women, about 10 years older than me, who both had lovely gray hair.

These women were quite stylish and fashionable, not all Berkinstock-hippie-ish (although there’s nothing wrong with that, of course) and when I saw them laughing and talking, I had an epiphany: color doesn’t matter.

Gray doesn’t need to mean un-stylish or old. I don’t mind old, in theory, I just don’t think 44 is that old. And I do like to play around with style and fashion, but gray doesn’t automatically mean old-fashioned.

So, if I let my hair go all the way, I’d still look like me, just with different hair. I mean, my face would look the same. My skin wouldn’t all the sudden turn 70 years old. I could still wear impractical high-heeled silver wedges on a whim and sport a trendy thrift-store dress with my fabulous hand-painted suitcases for a quick adventure somewhere unexpected,

I am a lifestyle. I am an adventure. I am fine old or young, thin or chubby.