The first few strands of white that I found in my hair came shortly after puberty. My mother, horrified, instantly plucked the offending strands and threw them away. But they didn’t go away. They kept multiplying and my mother would just keep plucking them. Against my will and in public.
It was a ritual of some sort to her. She’d hug me, stare critically at my hair and then pluck, pluck, pluck, three strands would be between her fingers. I’d frown mightily and she would ignore me. I couldn’t stand it, naturally, but she is my mother. So, I let her do it, all the while resenting it more and more.
She told me not to go to sleep with wet hair. (I took my showers in the morning.) Not to drink coffee. (I never drank coffee.) Not to put it into pony tails so much. (My hair from the time I was four to the time I was twelve was in a pony tail that was of her doing.)
Have I told you that my mother is a doctor?
Anyway, she’s given up plucking the white hair out of my head. Probably because I maneuver myself out of her grasp before she gets a chance to go at my hair. Oh, she still stares critically at my head, but she stares critically at me no matter what I’m doing.
I happen to love my salt and pepper hair (still more pepper than salt, but try telling that to my mother) and besides…it’s my hair. Those are my follicles. I’ll wear it short. I’ll wear it long. I’ll wear it curly. I’ll wear it dried straight. The point is, you won’t be imposing your will on my hair, thanks.