One thing in which I think I take too much pride, at times, is my academic performance. In the past, I managed to get grades on exams that were unbelievable, even to myself, for the amount of studying I had done. The exam may have just happened to ask the questions to which I knew the answers, even though there were many possible questions that would have stumped me.

I’ve always done well in mathematics, but a few times, I had to step back and take a second look at how much pride I had in my ability. Upon receiving the score for my second exam in MATH170, I was rather disturbed. My score was 79%. I had planned to use my math courses to balance the grades I might get in my English and writing courses, so that score was acceptable. It got worse still. In Statistics and Calculus, I received failing grades on homework assignments. Every time I got these bad grades, I felt the same. I started to think that maybe I really couldn’t do these things. After giving an honest effort, however, I did better.

The thing in which I haven’t enough pride is my worth as a person with whom people like to associate. I give up opportunities to socialize because I don’t think anyone will want to talk to me. Because of this trait of mine, I have very few friends. Perhaps spending the majority of my time alone isn’t bad; it is what I’m used to, but I bet that by living a life of partial seclusion, I miss out on interesting and amusing life experiences that could be beneficial.

I have illustrated how the extremes of pride can be harmful. In my case, too much pride in academic ability can lead to failing grades, and not enough pride in oneself as a social individual can lead to a lonelier life. A moderate amount of pride leads to a clear view of the agendas of life, allowing one to make good decisions regarding these.

Something strange has been happening to me lately: Women in the street have been telling me I’m brave.

My act of courage isn’t much—I just stopped coloring my hair. I had brown hair that started going gray when I was 30. So, like a lot of women, I started dyeing (把……染上颜色) it. It was expensive, messy and time-consuming. And my hair grows fast, so I needed to go back to the hair salon every five weeks.

Many people seem to enjoy holding on to their youth for as long as possible, giving off the impression that they don’t have much wisdom or many accomplishments. But our hair starts to turn gray, and suddenly we start spending $500 or more a year to cover something our male colleagues don’t need to cover.

Of course, people should do what they want with their own body—my mother is 91 and still has “blond” hair, and why not? I just wish more of us would feel that it was OK to be ourselves because going gray has done more for me than saving me time and money.

I like my natural hair, just as it is. I like how it has gotten curly and full again. It is recovering after years of being damaged by chemicals. I also like that it has given me some needed perspective in a society that makes youth seem so important, while being against maturity. It reminds me that I’m not a kid anymore—and this isn’t a bad thing.

Not being a kid anymore means I read the books I want and not the books I feel I should read. It means not wasting my time at events I don’t need to attend when I’d rather be with family and friends.

When I see my hair in the mirror, it’s a reminder that my time is not infinite, and I should spend it doing what matters. There’s nothing shameful about growing older. And pretending it’s not happening is a way of giving up our power.

I see my gray hair as a little act of rebellion against the idea that people lose value as they age, instead of gaining it. I see gray hair as my “flag”—and I’m letting it fly, proudly.

Harald Kaas was sixty. His back became rounded, and he bent a little. His forehead, always of the broadest－no one else’s hat would fit him － was now one of the highest, that is to say, he had lost all his teeth, which were strong though small, and blackened by smoking. Now, instead of “deuce take it” he said “deush take it”. He had always held his hands half closed as though grasping something; now they stiffened so that he could never open them fully. The little finger of his left hand had been bitten off. According to Harald’s version of the story, the fellow swallowed the piece on the spot.

He was fond of showing off the left part, and it often served as an introduction to the history of brave adventures, which became greater and greater and greater as he grew older and quieter. His small sharp eyes were deep set and looked at one with great intensity. There was power in his individuality. He has no lack of self-respect.

His house, raised on an old foundation, looked out to the south over many islands; farther out were more islands and the open sea. Its eastern wing was barely half furnished, and the western inhabited by Harald Kaas. These wings were connected by a gallery, behind which were the fields and woods to the north.

In the gallery itself were heads of bears, wolves, foxes and lynxes and stuffed birds from land and sea. Skins and guns hung on the walls of the front room. The inner rooms were also full of skins and filled with the smell of wild animals and tobacco-smoke. Harald himself called it “man-smell”; no one who had once put his nose inside could ever forget it. Valuable and beautiful skins hung on the walls and sat, and walked on skins, and each one of them was a subject of conversation. Harald Kaas, seated in his log chair by the fireside, his feet on the bearskin, opened his shirt to show the scars on his hairy chest (and what scars they were) which had been made by a bear's teeth, when he had driven his knife, right up to the end, into the monster’s heart. All the tables, and cupboards, and carved chairs listened in their silence.

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