Big Change Chronicles: Moving Across Town, Remembering What Home Means

8 years ago

by Agnes Krup

I discovered the first grey in my hair on Christmas day – several grey hairs, actually. Grey is not easy to detect in blond, but there they were, unmistakably. They looked quite beautiful (if I may say so myself): my head of straw given a quiet shine of distinction by just a dozen of strategically located individual hairs.

For all I know, they could have been there for many months. When was the last time I had had leisure to look at myself in the mirror, without being about to rush off and focused on brushing my teeth or putting on lipstick in a reasonably straight line (if at all)? But my theory is that those greys crept in over the last six or eight weeks, while I was stressed out over my recent move, from the beautiful side of Brooklyn Heights to the ugly, and from a charming old cottage to a large apartment complex. Or perhaps they grew overnight. Perhaps the night after I found out my daughter had broken her right wrist.
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