Last night at a housewarming party, I took inventory. The room exuded baby boomers, my age, within five to ten years. The men's heads were gray, silver, or hairless.  I was the only woman with "visible" roots.  The other's heads sparkled in red, blonde, black, brunette or a combination of all four.  In one conversation, about hair, I was told I was "brave" for deciding to quit dying.  I don't know if I've ever felt "brave" over the past three weeks.  I've felt afraid, indecisive, astonished, observant of my face in a way I've never felt before, and kind of relieved to not have to stop what I'm doing every nine or ten days and apply some kind of color to my roots.  Relieved that I won't be trying to scrub out the dye that's dripped onto the travertine floor or the tiled grout around the sink any more.  And, happy, that I am finally accepting the fact that my hair in its natural state is gray...more silver with traces of the dark, dark brown, almost black I was born with.