"Going Gray/Grey" by Troy H. Cheek on Apr 23, 2005

I don't mind the occasional gray hair. After all, graying hair adds a bit of character, and when your looks are questionable like mine, you need all the character you can get. Looks like I'm getting it. I have more gray hair now than my father had at my age. For that matter, I think I've got more gray hair than my father has at his current age.

I wouldn't mind it so much if I'd just go completely gray, or if I'd get those distinguished-looking gray temples that you see in movies and comic books, or if I could just get a nice salt-and-pepper gray thing going. Instead, I'm going gray in patches. I get a bit here, a spot there, three or four hairs in the back, like that. I figure by the time I'm 160 years old, I'll be completely gray.

One advantage of going gray in patches is the ability to point to a particular patch and attribute it to the trials and tribulations I encountered while dating a particular old girlfriend. Some caused more gray than others. I have to be careful when I speak of old girlfriends. Every time I mention one, half a dozen others write in threatening to kill me for talking about them.

I was lucky (or unlucky) enough to get an early start on my gray hair. I believe I got the first clump at about age 10. This one didn't involve a woman, though.

My two younger brothers (T2 and T3) and I were visiting a friend's house. This friend had the most marvelous thing in his back yard: a tire swing. We swung on that thing for hours. When we got home, we decided that we would build one of our own.

We looked around the house and garage for a car tire without success. The closest thing we could find was an old motorcycle tire. Okay, that would have to do. We also looked for a long rope, but likewise was without success.

What we did find was an old metal fish stringer. For those of you who didn't fish back then, a metal fish stringer was a joy to behold. Each of the dozen or so metal hooks would snap firmly into place, and never had the fish been caught which could break free from one. Though rusted, the metal chain still seemed solid enough. We certainly couldn't break it by pulling on it.

Once we had gathered our supplies, the next step was to find an appropriate tree to hang our swing from. This tree had to be tall and straight and stong. It had to have a branch low enough to reach so we could hang the swing from it. Most importantly, it had to be out of sight of the house, so our parents couldn't see it. Mom and Dad were always interupting in our fun, for no good reason that we could see.

Construction was child's play. Literally. We wrapped one end of the fish stringer around the tire and snapped a couple of hooks closed to hold it tight. The big hook on the other end was snapped around a convenient tree branch. Well, we almost snapped it. The branch was just a little too large to get the hook snapped closed. The smaller branches nearby didn't look like they'd support any weight at all, so we used the big one, snapped or not.

Once the swing was in position, we needed a test subject. As the oldest and the largest, I was it. The usual theory in these cases was that if it would work with me, it would work with either of the smaller brothers. On a side note, at an early age I also demonstrated a higher resistance to food poisoning.

I climbed into the tire and leaned backwards, and was surprised to find that the contraption seemed capable of holding my weight. I bounced a few times, certain that I was about to fall on my (even then) ample posterior. I "walked" through a few swings with my brothers holding the tire. Finally convinced that I wasn't going to fall, I lifted my legs for my first swing.

I immediately found myself sitting in the dust. Well, no big deal. I didn't appear to be damaged from our little experiment, which was a welcome change. I lifted my head to see the best way to stand up. Just in time to see a large metal hook speeding towards my face. I ducked. I felt a sharp stab of pain.

My brothers decided that discretion was the better part of valor and hightailed it home. I staggered along behind. My mother, who deserves combat pay, patched me up like she always did, pushing the little flap of loose skin back into place. After, of course, she made the obligatory comment about how she could see down into my brain. Or where my brain should be. Something like that.

The hair fell out of that particular spot, and for a while we all thought I'd have a bald spot, but it finally grew back. It came in gray. I don't mind. As a friend of mine was fond of saying "Let it turn gray, just don't let it turn loose."

Copyright 2005 by Troy H. Cheek. Reprint with prior written permission only. Comments and questions to