All the Greys…

(and there are possibly more than 50 shades), are here to stay…’

I might be grey but I’m not old.

I feel exactly the same as I did before I gave into my persistent silver strands and submitted to the inevitable. My hair started growing grey from the roots at 20, and despite my best efforts once a month nothing would change this fact of life. As we age, most of us grey. Now I’ve always had more grey hairs than my Mother who is in her 80’s which I feel is a cruel joke of the universe, but apparently I had a Great Aunt who was white at 40. It’s in the genes and you can’t fight that so I decided to stop.

My hairdresser and I had many conversations about it over months as he very politely pretended not to notice the uneven patches of grey that I wasn’t able to get in the back of my hair when applying my ‘natural’ ammonia free colour at home over the bathroom sink.’ Yes, it had come to that. I had made the decision a while ago that I would direct my spare cash into my hair cut rather than doubling the price to pay for a colour as well. And for a long time this worked until one day it just didn’t! I began to realise that the 1mm regrowth that appeared only two weeks after I had touched up the roots began to bug me more than any other part of my changing body, (it’s not just the hair that takes a hit in these middle-or-just past the middle years). Wearing sunglasses on top of your head to cover that fine white line in the evening when the moon is clearly up doesn’t make much sense. On top of that every time I applied a layer of colour to the roots the next layer down didn’t seem to blend evenly into the following, rather my hair was taking a raccoon stripe-like appearance which was becoming a bit embarrassing. Something had to give. I either gave up the quest for the natural colour of my youth, or I started visiting the hairdresser every 4 weeks to keep up appearances.

My Stylist at the time was an incredibly polite and sweet man, working very hard not to draw attention to these uneven blotches of greys and browns but one day I asked him what he thought I should do about the changing state of my hair, and he said, ‘Let it go…let’s just do it’. He presented it like an exciting  joint venture and maybe I thought he would somehow be with me along the way to walk the journey, but of course I only saw him once every 8 weeks so I was left alone to navigate this new path. I trusted him with my hair (and as most people do with the secrets of  life…don’t we all know that hairdressers double as therapists who listen intently while they work). They may not answer the existential questions that we pose but they do such magic on our hair that for a moment in time we forget all of our cares and float out of their space ready to conquer the world with our new and powerful ‘do’. I felt extremely confident about our decision when I was sitting in his chair as he crafted and shaped my locks into his version of an artistic masterpiece. He was the fourth in the line of hair stylists that I had experienced as each of the others, for their own reasons, had moved on from the Salon where he worked. I am a very fussy and particular client and any stylist must know how to work with curls, and preferably cut dry. Sam was the perfect match for me. It’s easy to imagine that when I got the call post-lockdown to say that the salon was open for business but that Sam had resigned his role there and was now working in his own business in Whanganui how I plummeted into crisis mode. I considered travelling to Whanganui once a month but knew this was a bit extreme. They offered me their top stylist in exchange, who also came with the top payment rate. It was clearly time to find someone new. Those moments of transition, from making a major decision to waiting to see what might come next feel like forever…but short story, thankfully, I found a new stylist quite quickly.  It turns out she used to work with Sam, she cuts hair dry, she’s great with curls, works 10 minutes from my house and is almost half the price.:). The Universe was conspiring with and for me. Yes, even on behalf of my hair.

But I have leaped a whole year ahead of my story, as just over a year ago I took that plunge, had my hair stripped of its remaining natural hues, disappearing under a weight of folded tin foil, farewelling the last browns to reveal a head of silver. Somebody should have warned me of the shock of it all. So for the next year I was left alone to nurture my self-esteem and invitation to grow into a whole new way of being. It felt like I had a personality change. I would wake up in the morning and give myself a fright. The hair stripping process created a blonde and brassy look for which there was purple shampoo. This was designed to neutralise the brass while waiting for the hair to grow naturally from the roots. Aside from threatening to turn the walls of my shower purple and staining the towels, I never felt like it worked for me so I gave up and embraced the process, which was to allow the grey to do its natural thing, from the roots through to the ends. My 1mm grey regrowth turned into 10cm and then finally, when I was able to get out for a haircut after weeks of lockdown most of the blonde and brassy ends that were a natural result of the stripping process were able to be cut off. All things come to those who wait.

To digress for a moment onto the topic of blonde hair… I’ve never experienced it. I’m not sure if it’s true that blondes have more fun, but one thing I do know is that everyone that I know who is blonde and has greyed seems to have a much better time of it. Brunettes or those of us who have enjoyed the darker hues grey differently. We have to put up with the ‘salt and pepper’ look and the hair strands are often dry. Our skin colour isn’t ready for the changing shade on the top of our heads so we have to then try and add some new tones to our face so as not to look too washed out. God forbid but it might even mean that I have to wear a brighter lipstick, red perhaps, or even start wearing lipstick! There’s so much involved in keeping up appearances.

I’ve noticed also that men who are blonde grey beautifully. And I won’t go into it too much, but it seems that when men do grey, no-one seems to notice as much, it’s a very acceptable thing in our culture and seems to invite an air of sophistication. What is more all they have to do is change the colour or shade of their glasses. Men who don’t embrace the greys and dye their hair black however do tend to expose themselves to ridicule, and perhaps the addition of a medallion around the neck increases the mockery. All this to say, men who embrace the greys are celebrated and those who colour up are the butt of a joke. Women, on the other hand are praised for trying to maintain their original colour and attempts at youthfulness, and quickly put into the category of ageing if they decide to become as nature, and possibly an invitation to maturity  intended.

Now I know that this is a small thing in the larger context of the world where crises are currently being experienced on levels that I can’t imagine. But there’s a metaphor in here somewhere. Perhaps it’s a small glimpse into the way our lives change in a moment, seemingly upsetting the equilibrium that we have enjoyed in the years before our bodies begin to change and we are ushered onto a path that feels like the beginnings of the mantra  ‘it’s all downhill from here.’ But is it?  My challenge, which going grey has highlighted plays itself out in so many ways and begs to ask questions of identity, security, confidence, value, acceptance and future hope. The natural ageing process reveals cultural norms and expectations that don’t often have room for change. It has shown me how the ageing, the elderly are also treated as being somehow less significant, rather than honouring and celebrating those who have lived long, portrayed in the lines on their faces and colour of their hair. I’m saddened by this reality. It turns out that the saying made famous by the sports brand Nike ‘image is everything, substance is nothing’, still rings true for some. But I refuse to bend as I always have to this philosophy, rather I believe that what lies unseen is where the strength and resilience resides, wisdom forged out of patience and longevity. 

I am one who will endeavour to hold my ageing head high, which won’t be quite high enough in a crowd as it sits on top of a 164cm frame, (categorically an average height.) And when I’m in any gathering I may also be overlooked because I’m not an extrovert and will only come to the party when I’m in the mood and feeling particularly social. But I won’t be overlooked because of the colour of my hair. I, along with myriads of other women (and men) my age  are making a statement with our many shades of silvery grey and white that we are here and we bring to this world a beautiful array of experience, knowledge and power and in the words of  Poet Clarissa Pinkola Estēs, ‘we are ‘wisdom holders and elderwomen’ 

Perhaps grey is the new black and grey, (and there are possibly more than 50 shades), is here to stay.