Shades of Grey at Fifty

The last time I chose to stop dying my hair, I waited until I was living in Crete among strangers — (apart from my boyfriend, or should I say partner, as we’re all grown up now, evidenced by the steely roots of my at different times raven/chocolate/golden/auburn/pink/red hair.)

Yet even in Crete, with sea-dried hair on pool-side days I felt judged by the coiffed holidaying ladies, as though I were letting the side down by showing my age, by not playing the game of pretense, or supporting the current obsession with Youth is Beauty and everything else is Not.

I maintained the grey back in London, blending with the weather and the concrete. I seemed to be growing a frontal white streak that I hoped would look interesting, perhaps intellectual. But a random mix of grey, white and black appeared, nothing like the silver or snow-white locks framing soft-focus faces of ‘older’ women I’d seen in ads for Saga Holidays.

And as the grey/white/black line of truth descended my scalp, I noticed myself as un-noticed. No male heads upon the street did I turn. None. Not any. “Looks are no longer my currency” I told myself. “I have a man. It doesn’t matter. And were I seeking one, he would have to love my grey hair anyway.” But feeling out-cast among women, and invisible to men got to me.

I gazed at the delighted, relieved face of my hair-dresser, reflected in the salon mirror, as she plastered chemical dye on the offending natural growth. She made my hair a rich brown, shiny and bouncy and yes, out in the street I turned heads. I felt relieved. Back in the swing.

Why did this matter? An older friend of mine when he saw me said “We just want to squeeze out as much as we can for as long as possible, don’t we?” And I felt excused, like this was a symptom of human nature.

Now, a few years on, I’ve left London and am in a sense starting afresh. My latest hair colour is golden brown with pale blonde framing my face (ironically, to emulate the gentleness white hair affords ageing skin.) People compliment this hair colour frequently, and also, my hair is long. The combination of long and blonde however, has led to a white-van-man-double-take phenomenon. It seems long blonde hair is a signal which men are wired to respond to, but in my case, a quick glance reveals that I am, well, not that young, leading to instant interest vaporisation. The phrase “Who am I trying to kid?” comes to mind, and is one of the factors that has led me to once more stop dying my hair.

The in-between stage is a mess, and looks like I haven’t bothered to touch up my roots, reminding me of a younger friend’s comment which sped up my previous return to the salon:“It’s great!” she said, with enthusiasm, “It looks like you just don’t care!”

It’s hard to refute my up-bringing and culture — mother coloured her hair to the very end — but I do not believe in age being a negative attribute. I do not believe that the only human beauty is found in fully oestrogenised glossy hair and plump cheeks, but that there is beauty in the haggard, the experienced and the wise. As my partner reminded me today, my original reason for stopping the dye was to be the change I want to see in the world.

So I have reminded him to remind me of that if I reach for the dye again.