grey hair

On the train today we managed to get a seat for my wife. I find that holding her bag with the maternity badge up in front of me increases the chance of someone obliging, offering their seat to my wife. So my wife was sitting and I stood in front of her, looking at her. Feeling how much I admire her. Her grey hair. Being a youngish salaryman in Tokyo, you apparently do not have grey hair. You hide it with colour, my wife says. And being pregnant, not wanting to look old, and at the same time being a bit afraid of the hair dye, what it might do to the baby (and having a husband who is also afraid), grey hair becomes a problem.

This problem can during the first month or two be postponed by changing the hairstyle, letting the coloured hair cover the grey. But there comes a point when this no longer is possible and all that is left is to dye your hair or brave through people’s looks and comments about the fact that your hair is more eye catching than your growing stomach. So far, my wife has resisted the temptation to dye her hair again. She has even stopped using foundation, much to my delight.

As I was looking at my wife today on the train I was feeling how much I admire her, how brave she is, how her natural shining beauty is far superior to any cosmetic alteration she could possibly do. I was thinking how I wish for our little baby to be like her, able to not succumb to peer pressure and instead feel confident enough to walk his own path in the world. And if not, I hope he finds a partner that does. And that believes in him. Just like I have. 

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