As we age, we begin to experience physical limitations in the areas of vision, hearing and mobility. For me, one of the greatest challenges of growing older was an emotional one, the onset of which I saw increasingly in the mirror.
When those first wiry strands appeared in my late 30s, I yanked them immediately. My 40s required an every-six-week camouflage of the roots, so the choice of a cheap brand of hair color saved on the expense. The gray stampede began to accelerate once I reached my 50s, shortening the dye-timetable to every three weeks.
Going gray was a genetic inevitability in my family. My granny had snow-white hair that looked and felt like cotton. My brother has a long, silvery white braid and bushy mustache, reminiscent of the actor Sam Elliott. Salt and pepper hair is the standard among relatives, so I could not be sure which shade would eventually choose me. But no way was I ready to seriously consider inviting the gray to stay.
My husband had already gone gray, and he was not a guy who was comfortable using Grecian Formula. He was fine with the fact his color promoted him to elderly status, but he made it clear that he didn’t want a gray-haired wife.
I held onto that bottle of Revlon Colorsilk Dark Ash Blonde not because of my husband, but because I convinced myself that coloring my hair made others believe I was younger.
For 35 years, I worked in the administrative professional field. I perfected the ability to market myself, dressing fashionably and never appearing in public without makeup. I was proud that employees and executives, all of whom were younger than me, considered me a cool woman for 50.
I wanted to hide the fact I was about to be 60, and so I felt that I needed to keep the gray away. Then came the pandemic. Home was my new office and the people for whom I yearned to appear youthful were gone. I had been handed a reason not to color. After 20 years of fighting a losing battle, I finally surrendered — gradually.
The decision to stop dyeing was not one I made because I was ready to BE gray but was ready to TRY gray. I took the plunge, side-stepping the popular trend of going gray all the way, by slowly blending in shades of Barbie-blonde.
After six months, I began to like it. One year later, I was sold. My hair grew in silvery-white, the same shade as my brother’s mane. I sampled many styles, such as bobs, shags and blunt cuts. Now, each time I venture out into the public, I get compliments from strangers, young and old, and my kids rave over my color.
I believe the main reason I didn’t welcome the arrival of gray hair is that I didn’t want to look or become that “old lady” who is often deemed invisible and irrelevant.