When it comes to hair, there are two sides to my family: my dad had a full head of silver hair before he was 30; my mom had gorgeous, dark hair well into her late 50s with nary a gray hair on her head until her early 60s.

Although she resembles my dad, my oldest sister is blessed with my mom?s hair gene. Our next oldest sister got the short end of the DNA straw and went silver at 30 much to her chagrin. Me? I?ve been something of a ?tweener.?

Still, when those first silver strands showed up in my early 30s I went straight to the colorist and have been coloring my hair ever since-- and hating it. Really, I hate having my hair colored because it makes me feel like a fake. However, the battle between feeling fake or going prematurely gray was never much of a struggle?I quickly got used to the fake and, in fact, for a time there, quite enjoyed it.

Quelle surprise--my superficial nature often wins out over my more philosophical leanings . . .

The last couple of years, though, I really wanted to stop outright. Yet I knew in my corporate job I couldn?t grow my hair in gray. You think I?m crazy? I?m not. I would?ve lost power immediately. I?m not really going to go into the reasons why and wherefore here?I accept that you may disagree with me, but I will not budge on this belief?I would?ve lost power and so I kept coloring my hair.

Then, last summer I changed jobs. I now no longer worked in the corporate sector where airbrushed image is key to success. In my new job as a program director for a non-profit arts organization, I could cut loose and dress like a new age shaman on holiday in Iceland?nobody would blink an eye?creativity and personal expression is where it?s at.

So since September, I have been actively working my brain around this shift, how to let it all go and not self-destruct in the ungainly process (and the hard-core acknowledgement that my wild youth has passed) because let?s be honest here, there is gonna be a whole lotta ugly before we get to anything remotely acceptable.

For the past 6 weeks I have been growing out my roots and in a couple of weeks I go in to get my hair stripped?and then for the next 12 months?well, who knows. I?ll keep you posted on all that. Mostly? I am SO looking forward to summer where I can be in the lake and ocean and at the beach and let the sun do its magic on my hair?something I haven?t been able to do for all these years as when your hair is colored the sun is to be avoided.

The truth is, I am genuinely excited about this change and am all "bring it, bitch!"

So, why am I going on about all of this? This morning, as we sat around the kitchen island eating pancakes and chatting with some houseguests up visiting for some skiing and whatnot, I came across this article in the New York Times and it kind flipped me back a bit. I mean, this is the first time I have ever seen the argument for plastic surgery and botox and the like being compared to orthodontia and who?s ever going to argue against the value of orthodontia? Not me. And yet, I absolutely reject the notion that botox and plastic surgery is more attractive than wrinkles and natural aging.

Categorically, I reject it.

I?ve seen both up close and personal and I am repulsed by plastic surgery, botox and the like. It?s horrifying to me in the same way 17th century French court with its pox and powders would have freaked me out--humans as monsters, as far as I?m concerned. (See: Joan Rivers, et al). But am I just out of touch as this article implies? Will my gray hair and wrinkles someday be looked on as yellowed, crooked teeth are today?

Perhaps this is simply clever marketing and they?ve set up an oranges and apples comparison between orthodontia and plastic surgery. Who knows.

My guess is that it?s all some freaking fear of death. That, and an obsession with false imagery that we get fed on a daily basis through film, tv and magazines.

Either way?you?ll always be able to pick me out of the crowd?silver haired, boobs at my belly, ass at my ankles?and and a shit-eating grin amid that masses of wrinkles. Because Death can come and find me any day of the week it wants to, I'm not going to play some kind of elaborate masquerade to try and outwit it (as if Death can't see through botox, I mean come on, people!). No, I have always resonated most deeply with Montaigne who wrote, "when Death finds me let it find me planting cabbages, as unconcerned about Death as I am about the cabbages I'm leaving behind."*

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*Now that's just me rendering my own translation-- go read it for yourself if you want a better version.

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