Georgia Faye is fixated on her crown of white, which only recently has basked in the light of day. Used to be, her real color was something only her closest friends knew for sure. She too often wore a dead white streak close to her scalp, which widened with each deep breath she took, a signal she was way overdue for an afternoon with Miss Clairol.

I shrug my shoulders. "Georgia Faye, that white hair of yours sho' gives you a rush."

"You don't like my hair?"

"Now, what makes you ask a question like that?"

She tut, tut, tuts a few times, then gives me The Look. "I know you don't like it. It's written all over your face!"

I snort. "Those are not words you see written on my face, Georgia Faye. Those are wrinkles with interesting conversational possibilities."

Georgia Faye and I went to high school together. We sat next to each other in chorus class, participated in daylong talkathons, and we still do. She introduced me to my first husband, not that I hold it against her or anything.

The bottom line is, we have seen each other through weddings, babies, kindergarten, divorces, PMS and menopause. Even so, every time she fluffs those white locks of hers, I need to remind myself that she is not her own grandmother.

I admit it. White hair did not make the top ten list of things I wanted to have when I grew up. White hair on women my age creeps me out. It's pre-everything I ever learned at my mother's knee. Embracing the white hair mentality is tantamount to thumbing my nose at the tiny dab of progress made by repressed women throughout history.

"You could make your life a whole lot easier if you didn't color your hair," Georgia Faye declares suddenly. "At your age, blonde hair and pony tails are not only inappropriate, they just don't work for you. And you should also give some thought to not being a slave to the makeup counter at Dillard's."

I lift my defiant chin. "I haven't worn a pony tail in two whole years."

She squints her eyes and, as if accusing me of treason, says, "You're still blonde, aren't you? Period. Paragraph."

I glare at my white-haired friend who is wearing no makeup, clean white socks and a pair of bright red, polyester stretch pants, circa 1968. Underneath the heavily starched dress shirt she rescued from the Goodwill pile three years ago, she has on a pastel polyester T-shirt with embroidered roses across the chest. She brags to people that she buys her clothes at the store where America shops. Georgia Faye's chance of becoming a fashion maven at her age is between zero and nil, but somewhere in the world there's bound to be a cartoon waiting to be drawn of her. Move over, Maxine.

However, her suggestion to me that my life might be easier without touch-ups gives me momentary pause. For one nanosecond, I'm tempted to let it all hang out and the rest drag. No crash diets, no overspending at the Clinque counter, no getting out of breath while squeezing into skin-tight designer jeans. No Miss Clairol . . .

"Whoa! No Miss Clairol? What's up with you, Miz High Maintenance, my 'other' self screams in my ear. "Have you been sniffing hair spray? Been knocking back a few swigs of perm solution? Need I remind you that wrinkled was another thing you didn't want to be when you grew up. Take a chill pill, girlfriend."

Cheeks flushed with new resolve, I make eye contact with my white-haired friend who thinks she discovered the secret to simplicity. "I was born a blonde," I say to her, "and I aim to be embalmed as one."

Georgia Faye lays a smirk on me. "Haw!" She spits it out while eying the large bowl of malt balls sitting on the table in front of her. Without the slightest hint of guilt, she reaches over and pops four chocolates in her mouth at one time. Chewing the candy with gusto, she looks as though it could be her first taste of Godiva chocolate like they sell in gold boxes at Bloomie's, a store in which she will never set foot.

"You're gonna get a zit," I tell her. "A zit with wrinkles."

She cocks her head to the side and says, "Naaah."

"Better listen to me, Georgia Faye. No matter how old you get you never outgrow chocolate zits. Eat a Hershey Bar today and tomorrow you're talking face peel."

A smile begins to form on Georgia Faye's lipstick-less mouth as she bats her mascara-less eyelashes at me.

"Watch my lips, girlfriend. This is called low maintenance. Get it?"

"Oh, I get it all right. Now, watch my lips, Georgia Faye. With regard to looking my age, I shall NOT go gentle into that good night. Depend on me to rage, rage against the dying of the light."

She throws up her hands. "That's it. I give up. You win."

"You give up?"

"Well, duh. I'm not one to argue with Dylan Thomas." She pauses. "Besides, you would look like hell with a crop of white hair."

She shakes her head, pops four more malt balls and smirks, showing off every one of her chocolate covered, unbleached teeth.

"Low maintenance," she says. "It's a good thang."