Now that I’m a firm believer in the majesty that is KARMA, I feel like it behooves me to say thus:
DON’T.
TEMPT.
THE KARMA.
BEAST.
Don’t do it. Just don’t.
Don’t dish it if you can’t take it.
Don’t talk smack if your bleeding heart is on your sleeve and ripe for pinpricks.
Don’t lock yourself in a glass house and then decide that throwing stones would be fun.
Want to know why?
Because karma bites back.
Now, I’m not trying to toot my own horn or anything, but I am nearing the middle of my thirties, and I’ve yet to find a grey hair. It’s been lovely! I'll look every once in a while, but when all you see is a sea of brunette, you get a little too comfortable.
And maybe it’s been luck. Maybe it’s genetics.
And MAYBE it was karma waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Case and point:
Writing a book is a massive undertaking. It’s probably one of the craziest things I’ve ever done. It has essentially become my entire identity. Naomi, the girl who writes books. Naomi, the daydreamer. Naomi, the girl with weird ideas. It’s all I ever want to talk about, complain about, think about.
If you know me, you’ll know that the entire experience has been stressful. I do not handle stress very well; I have very few coping skills, and my go-to solution is to have a solid cry instead of problem solve. My second go-to is to crack jokes.
Like how this entire experience was going to give me grey hair.
I’m fairly certain karma heard me say this enough times and literally said, “Challenge accepted, punk.”
I drove in for my night shift in the OR, and as I was tying up my hair to shove into my scrub cap, something glinted on the tippy-top of my head.
“A blonde hair,” I said to the empty room. “Just a blonde hair.”
I separated the strand and inspected it closely.
I stared at the hair.
The very not-blonde, very grey hair stared back.
And if finding your first grey hair is traumatizing, imagine sharing that moment with an audience.
It was right around the time that I started shouting “NO NO NO!” at the mirror that my co-worker walked into the changeroom. She got to witness my slow turn away from the mirror—single hair still locked in a pincer-like grip—the horrified look on my face, and the emotional spiral that came shortly after she confirmed that it was, indeed, a grey hair.
And then I was expected to go to work as thought nothing was wrong.
Am I being dramatic? Absolutely.
Is the situation actually more funny than traumatizing? For sure.
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