I’ve had gray hairs since I was 34—just a streak at first near my temple, which my partner jokingly called my “storm stripe.” Now, at 38, it’s spread more, but I’ve never dyed it. Not to make a statement—just didn’t care enough. Last week, at work, I walked into the break room and heard Jamal from accounting joking, “Ask Granny over there—she’s been around since the faxes.” People laughed. I didn’t. I tried to play it off, grabbed my sad salad, and left. But it stung. Later, the guy I was training, Tyrese, started calling me “Ma’am” in this awkward way, like he didn’t know what else to say. That night,

I stared at myself in the mirror, tugging my hair back, even used a virtual hair-dye app. Then, out of nowhere, my mom texted me a selfie—smiling at the farmers market, her gray streaks shining, no filter. She looked proud, unbothered. The next morning, there was a box on my desk. No note. Just a soft, hand-crocheted beanie—gray and midnight blue—with a card: “Wear your crown with pride.” My cheeks flushed. Was it encouragement or a jab?