And yet another gray hair.

 

This week, I celebrated turning twenty-two. This means a few things:

 

Brownie sundaes.

 

The semi-tradition of marathoning Lord of the Rings.

 

"Officially" reaching the status of Old Maid (a running joke in my family).

 

Trying to remember I am my new age, rather than the old one. (If someone asks how old I am, I will probably stumble over "21" before remembering.)

 

And, as the title suggests, yet another gray hair.

 

It's a genetic thing; my grandfather and my mom both were premature grayers. I found my first one when I was twelve. I'm used to it. But the funny thing about this particular new gray strand is that I didn't have it on Sunday. But Monday, it just showed up, as if my hair knows I got older.

 

I don't necessarily mind getting gray hair, though. (It apparently doesn't make me look older anymore, because most people think I'm, like, twelve.)

 

But it was an odd little reminder that I am another year older. I am not obsessed with getting older, like it means something bad. For me, it means another year of experiencing life and all that it contains.

 

It means growing and (trying) to be a better person. It means learning my strengths and trying to overcome my weaknesses.

 

Those gray hairs mean I've been able to spend another year learning. Another year seeing new things and making memories. Of making decisions on my own. Of being more vocal about my opinions. Of setting new goals and striving to meet them. Of learning to adapt to new situations.

 

I've earned those gray hairs through so many experiences, some of them good and some of them not.

 

But most of all: They mean I have been blessed with another day.