49. Go grey

A reminder that minuscule matters like hair colour really hold no importance when we zoom out and look at life’s bigger picture.

Photo by Meddy Huduti on Unsplash

In a brief and chaotic dream world the other night I saw myself from a distance, and was surprised by how grey my hair has become. In this dream my tresses were longer and greyer than they are in the real world, and much thicker too. It was a head of hair that was altogether more in all ways.

I couldn’t see my own face, I only had a view of myself from behind, where this grey mane dominated. But somehow, in that mysterious dream-logic way, I knew it was me. I wouldn’t say I felt shocked by my appearance, but the surprise I felt was somewhat jarring, and my vanity awoke slightly bruised from the vision.

Such importance we place on hair. A symbol of beauty and youth.

I remember complaining about the heat once, years ago, in a public bathroom, at a shared mirror with other women I didn’t know. My hair, I declared with remorse, goes frizzy in this heat. In the resulting chit chat, one of the women said she wore a wig because she had alopecia. Wow, I said limply, it looks fabulous, which it did — not that she needed or wanted my opinion.

I do love my hair, despite bemoaning it regularly throughout my life for its flaws, like being frizzy one day or flat the next. I love it as part of the appreciation I have developed over time for my whole body, that has grown exponentially since the feat of childbirth, and with life experience and the gradual shedding of the angst and self consciousness of youth. I’m grateful for my healthy head of hair (and have not taken it for granted quite as much since that day in the public bathroom).

Approaching 50 — so close now, just two weeks away — my hair is changing, like an off-kilter version of leaves in autumn. The turn from reddish brown to streaks of silver that startle me when I find them lying adrift on our dark floorboards, or standing to attention on my head like crooked little flagpoles. I never fully appreciated the lovely shimmer of auburn I had when my crown was at its peak — my twenties were spent bleaching and enhancing with lurid shades of red and pink, while I highlighted my way through my thirties with bits of balayage blonde.

I recently spent several hours and a lot of cash at a hairdresser in a quest to “blend the grey” — an attempt at defying the ageing process, at slowing down the passing of time. The place was packed — the pre-Christmas rush, everyone eager to primp and preen themselves in anticipation of the silly season. I hated every minute of it — it felt so indulgent at a time in the world when there are infinitely more important things to worry about. I walked out feeling a bit disgusted with myself for wasting so much time and money.

At a meeting later, a conversation with other small business owners about pricing strategies. When a kind and generous yoga teacher fretted aloud that perhaps her prices were too high, I pointed out that there are plenty of people out there perfectly willing to fork out huge amounts of money on less important luxuries for themselves, so she should go for it.

“Allowing” our hair to go grey is a big deal for women — there’s still so much pressure for us to extend our youth for as long as possible, to fight the natural ageing process and submit to societal beauty standards. Grey hair is a blaring beacon of age, a signal of growing old, and thus something to battle and banish and hide.

Since COVID and the lengthy temporary closure of hair salons around the country, the internet is full of articles about the new wave of women “embracing” their silver regrowth, about the notion of grey hair “empowerment”. I’ve read quotes from women who “feel emancipated”, like a “warrior woman”, but who still concerned about whether they will be “accepted”.

Such importance we place on our bloody hair. We twist and twirl and tie it up into our identity, assign value to it beyond its worth.

There is a certain sadness there, in witnessing my hair change. It shows how much time has passed, it reminds me my youth is a distant, cherished memory. It’s a visible movement from one stage of my life to the next. I can try to change it or blend it or dye it, but I can’t deny it. Time to embrace it, perhaps? I’ll go quietly though — you won’t hear any “warrior woman” cries from me.

Meanwhile this week, our state burned. Houses and businesses decimated in the shire just north of here. My Instagram feed is full of smoke. The sky outside a heavy grey. It’s an unsubtle comparison, a pointed way of highlighting that minuscule matters like hair colour really hold no importance when we zoom out and look at life’s bigger picture.

In that dream world, me and my grey mane seemed perfectly happy, occupied with something, getting on with things. Here in the real world, I’ll try to do the same. I’ll press on with things that matter — like donating to my local CFA! — and let the memory of my younger self, with her lovely locks, sit beside me as I go.