Under the salon lights, a silver thread emerges from my dark brown hair without a lick of shame. My hairdresser asks if I want it cut off, like a clearance tag stuck on a dress. The church fathers used to tell me I would never survive Christ’s return unless I repented. My real father told me I would never survive in life unless I got realistic and found a man to take care of me. I never repented, got realistic or found a man, but I did survive. The gray strand stays on my head. It’s earned the right to.
Alyson Floyd writes short fiction and screenplays. Her work has previously appeared in Short Beasts. Instagram: @monochromefloyd