I started getting gray hairs around 34. It began with a streak near my temple—honestly, kind of cool.
My partner even called it my “storm stripe,” which always made me laugh. Now I’m 38, and it’s spread a bit more. Not a full head of gray, but definitely visible.
I’ve never dyed it—not because I was trying to prove a point, but because I just didn’t care enough to bother.
Then, last week at work, I was walking into the break room when I heard Jamal from accounting cracking a joke: “Ask Granny over there—she’s been around since the fax machine days.” I froze mid-step.
They laughed. I didn’t.
I brushed it off, grabbed my sad little salad from the fridge, and walked out like it didn’t bother me. But it did.
And to make it worse, the new guy I was training—Tyrese, fresh out of college—started calling me “Ma’am” in this awkward, almost theatrical way afterward.
Suddenly, it felt like my age was all anyone could see. Not how hard I work. Not how I stayed late fixing the client portal when it crashed. Just the silver strands by my ears.
That night, I stood in front of the mirror, tilting my head, pulling my hair this way and that. I even took a screenshot and uploaded it to one of those virtual hair-dye apps.
Then something unexpected happened—my mom sent me a selfie. She was at the farmers market, smiling, gray streaks shining in the sun. No filter, no caption. Just her, looking calm and confident.
I couldn’t stop staring at it.
This morning, when I got to my desk, there was a small box sitting there. No name, no note, just a box.
I stared at it for a moment, half-jokingly wondering if it might explode. My first instinct was confusion—why would someone leave me a random gift?
I thought maybe my partner was pulling some cute surprise thing again, but this wasn’t really the place for that. Then I worried—what if it was some cruel joke about my hair?
I opened it, expecting to find a box of hair dye or something equally pointed. Instead, I found a hand-crocheted beanie—light gray, almost silver, with threads of midnight blue woven in. Underneath was a small card with a single line: “Wear your crown with pride.”
I felt my face flush. I looked around the office—no one was watching me. The card wasn’t signed. I touched the stitching, soft and deliberate, and instinctively glanced over at accounting. Jamal was focused on his screen, typing away. Tyrese hadn’t arrived yet.
I didn’t know what to make of the gift. Was it a subtle jab, a suggestion to cover up the gray? Or was it something else—something kind?
