By Dan Mackie
For the Valley News
When I was in college my hair was darker than dark chocolate, but even then, in the full blush of youth, occasional white hairs popped up, like a rare dandelion on a prized lawn.
“Is that a white hair?” a friend would ask. “It is! You’re going gray!” They were amazed that my 20-year-old dome was skipping ahead to middle age and beyond.
It didn’t bother me. Up to a certain point — you can imagine what that point is — age isn’t a worry for me. Fleeting youth wasn’t a big deal either. Never a star athlete, never a Big Man on Campus, I was not giving up all that much.
Though I might turn gray I would likely have “a good head of hair,” a phrase my mother spoke in an admiring tone. A good head of hair seemed prestigious, like a Cadillac or a fine suit. It was a sign of virility, perhaps, although virility wouldn’t have been spoken of in our household.
The evidence for my follicular optimism was my father, who similarly sprouted touches of gray in his 20s, and whose mane remained full almost throughout his life. One of his brothers had a receding hairline in a full state of retreat, but most Mackies held on to their hair. Only in his last years did my father’s hair thin and turn slightly yellow, as if he’d consumed too much butter.
Among the Irish with piercing blue eyes the blue and gray and youthful skin can be dazzling. Alas, my salt-and-pepper years haven’t produced the same effect. If Hollywood called, it wouldn’t be looking for a leading man. I’d be an extra, someone concrete would fall on in an earthquake movie.
In writing this piece, I right-clicked on the word gray to seek a synonym. Microsoft Word exhibited awful ageism, suggesting “old, older, hoary, ancient, dreary, depressing.” Why not just go for “old, older, dead?”
As a baby boomer, I imagine that anything we are involved in will transform all trends, even aging. Gray is the new black! Dentures are sexy! Someday, electric scooter races!
But we have role models for our gray expectations. George Clooney and Richard Gere are far from hoary, even with their galloping gray. Singer Emmy Lou Harris has looked neither ancient nor dreary, despite hair as light as angel’s wings. Arlo Guthrie from the ’60s (Alice’s Restaurant) gives a whole new look to the 60s. Increasingly, gray-haired beauties are showing up on TV commercials, although the fact that they serve as Viagra eye candy gives pause.
The Upper Valley trends to mature colors, I have noticed. Ample waves of gray flow across the audience at the Nugget Theater and Hopkins Center in Hanover. “Hah, look at all these grayhairs,’’ I have sometimes scoffed to myself, before I remember that I am not far behind. I’m not sure what to make of gray hippie hair (forever young?), but what the heck: never trust anyone under 50.
I’m very much a hair libertarian: color yours if you wish, or embrace the silver. There was a time when I was critical of men who touched up their hair, but that was before white started showing up in my eyebrows, something that has tested my resolve. My only advice is that if you are going to do it, do it well. I recall one fellow who looked like he dyed his hair in junkyard waste oil, producing a color that had elements of rust, old seat stuffing, and ash tray leavings.
As for women, I have little hair advice. Gray can look elegant or devil-may-care, but groovy is a stretch. Concerning colors, I don’t much like Popsicle Orange or Crazy Lady Purple. Other than that, do whatever feels natural, or unnatural, whichever you prefer.
Although this column rarely offers anything resembling research, there are some actual facts to learn (and likely forget) about graying. A New York Times article provided some perspective on the topic.
According to the Times, sometimes called “The Old Gray Lady,” The Journal of Investigative Dermatology reported a few years ago that “Whites tend to gray first, often as early as their mid-30s, followed by Asians and then Africans. About half of 50-year-olds are at least 50 percent gray.” Apparently, I just had a head start.
Also in the Times: “A major study of 20,000 men and women in Copenhagen looked for any links between heart-disease mortality and physical signs of aging like gray hair, baldness and facial wrinkles. They found none. ‘People with premature graying of the hair don’t die any sooner than anybody else,’ said Dr. Leo M. Cooney, professor and chief of geriatrics at Yale University School of Medicine. ‘I think the study shows that gray hair has something to with your genetics and very little to do with premature aging.’ ”
I could blame my father for my graying hair, but that seems unfair since he got the grays from his parents, who got them from their parents, going back to the gray dawn of time. As for my mother, she went blonde in her later years, so who knows?
I do wish that gray meant wisdom. I have a little of that, but less than my hair might suggest.
The writer lives in West Lebanon. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com.

NOV. 7 -- Yesterday was our wedding anniversary, an annual event since 1976, when a happy bride and nervous groom took vows at a church not far from the Atlantic Ocean in Jamestown, R.I. A couple hundred witnesses were for the proceedings, and to cash in on the happy hour and roast beef.

If I had to do it all over again, I would, although I would skip the playing of Joy to the World (the ditty about a wine-imbibing bullfrog …) at the reception. I’m still haunted by the memory of certain uncles and aunts dancing like inebriated zombies. The tune was de rigueur at weddings until The Electric Slide came along and changed everything.

I’d go for an edgy first dance, something to amaze and confuse the crowd. Eve of Destruction is one apocalyptic possibility from our era. It was wasn’t much of a dance tune, but I’m not much of a dancer.

All these years later, I am pleased to report, we are as married as ever. Although this is a violation of every cultural trend, we are nonseparated and undivorced.

In fact, we have settled into a midlife state of companionship so agreeable that we sometimes wonder if we are delusional. We are not Jon and Kate, Brad and Jennifer, or Britney and whomever. We have a comfort marriage; we are as reliable as macaroni and cheese.

Raising children cemented our bond; we had to form a united front against them. Although we enjoyed those years as much as any parents, when it was done and the nest emptied, we exhaled in unison and breathed in the quiet. We had found our bliss.

I suppose I should offer some marriage tips, since we appear to still be an item after all these years. Ours happens to be a relationship with traditional gender roles, but I support universal happiness, so feel free to adapt.

Never go to bed angry, especially with a loaded weapon. Everything else relies on this.

Husbands, help with the housework. I have a friend who said he was granted exclusivity regarding throw-up and excrement. It’s OK to be a specialist, as long as overall you do your share.

Somewhere along the line, husbands, stop and ask directions, just to let her know you can. Men sent satellites into space and invented GPS at a cost of trillions just so they can mostly avoid this act, but it’s still occasionally necessary to soothe an anxious spouse.

If you don’t overdo it, judicious use of the phrase “yes, dear” can work wonders. Isn’t that right, dear? Men might be tempted to say yes, dear in a nasally voice to be funny, but there is a lifetime limit on this joke, and you might reach it. I have.

Praise your partner in front of other people (and in front of your partner). This is public relations 101.

Treat your partner as you would treat yourself, if you didn’t have all your tics and neuroses. In other words, treat your partner better than you treat yourself.

Wives, accept your husband’s quirks. Men, like cats, need time to switch off their brains. They can be both alive and brain dead at the same time. That’s why God invented TV football, and wood shops.

Women have quirks, too, but no one but Oprah can explain them.

I have found that it is useless to resist my wife’s primal urge to move furniture around. Eventually things will be back where they started. Accept that.

Women take the toilet seat issue very seriously, more seriously than men. Just think of it as a test, like a test of the national emergency broadcast system. It needs to be done, that’s all. Put the seat back down.

One actual secret of happy marriage might be as simple as can be. Dede has no mean streak; she has taught me the value of treating another person with kindness, constant kindness. After, say, 30 years or so, this starts to sink in.

Years ago it was said that couples should be brutally honest and share their anger and disappointments and black moods and all the rest. Then, you said, presumably, “but I love you.” To me, that’s a mixed message, like hugging your partner and kicking her in the shins.

I say, Don’t Do It. Let your spouse see your Sunday best version of yourself. Eventually, you might become that person. Along the same lines: many of the flaws in your relationship might be your own. Work on those first.

Try a secret three- or seven-day love offensive: unexpected hugs, praises, flowers, helpful acts, etc. Usually men expect this to “pay off” in 15 minutes or so, but work the whole program. Hold your horses, or whatever.

Humor helps, too. In late midlife, if you are lucky, you can start to laugh at yourself, and your selves. You lose reading glasses; it takes longer to remember the names of people you used to know; you get out of the car on trips stiff as creatures from Dawn of the Dead.

Face facts: In the long run, you are both in the same aging lifeboat, and it will surely spring leaks. Grab a bucket and bail, and splash some water at your loved one. Laugh when you get splashed in return. All is fair in war, and love.

The writer lives in West Lebanon. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com.