Grey Hair, Don’t Give a Fuck
The light cascaded across the room, jumping over the bright green leaves of the one plant I have kept alive, skipped through the pile of laundry I hadn’t folded and landed right on the top of my head. I looked at my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. Silver peaked out through the red dye of my twenty three year old head. I wondered about the wives tales that preached that if you pulled those hairs, three new ones would take their place. I questioned the fairness of it all. I turned my head in all different angles wondering if they were really noticeable, and then made plans to get more hair dye for the second time that month. Moments like this led to many different styles, colors, and fights with my hair. I was desperate to fight the grey.
A year ago, I decided I was tired of battling the inevitable. My forty one year old self was much more capable of confronting the grey hair. So, I decided to stop dying it. It was horrible at first. It seemed like there was so much grey. I had short hair at the time, and as it grew out, I liked to believe that it looked like some kind of fancy ombre. Silver at the top and red at the bottom. What was really the truth is that my hair is brown, so I had silver streaked brown with red tips. It was ridiculous. When people see pictures of me with my hair like that, they always ask me if I had dyed it blue. I walked around like that for a year. My son hated it. My mom said that women in her family don’t have grey hair. Naturally my contrary personality just fed off of comments like those and only pushed me to keep it natural.
Our society has created a weird box for women to exist in. We can be little girls, hot young women, strong business women in pencil skirts, moms in vans, awkwardly gross cougars, or grandmas with cookies. Parents and the middle aged aren’t supposed to have fun.
As time passed, I got more and more compliments. People asked me how I got my hair like that or asked for my beautician’s phone number. Hair dressers bragged that so many people would pay for my hair. Women would ask me in random places about it, shy and cautious, almost nervous. It was like I had my own secret grey hair girl’s club. Now my hair is long and healthy, nearly mid back. All of the old color has been cut out and it is completely natural. Every day more silver shows through but it is ironically not really noticeable unless you really look at it. It is there, in abundance, but it is so beautifully weaved naturally that it is actually really nice. I am so excited every time I see more that I am almost disappointed that it is not more grey.
This experience has actually taken me to a whole different level of thinking. Especially when I see my own mom’s roots showing, or women too shy to admit they also have grey hair. I recently read an article about women in the movie industry and how they are not allowed to age gracefully. Women are either cast as young or as old, and that there is no real in between. Our society has created a weird box for women to exist in. We can be little girls, hot young women, strong business women in pencil skirts, moms in vans, awkwardly gross cougars, or grandmas with cookies. Parents and the middle aged aren’t supposed to have fun. They are just supposed to work, clean the house, and sit at home doing nothing, from what I understand. They listen to old people music and never kiss in public. I just want to be a grey haired 42 year old, with tattoos who likes to use the F word, and likes to hang out with her husband and friends. I don’t want to drive a van or make cookies.
Grey hair, wider hips, and the possibility of a uterus falling out, are all normal parts of life. Chin hair is inevitable, and I have to use my magnifying glass to pull it out. We can’t live in a world that pretends none of that happens. I can’t live in a world that says my life is over after my kids go to college. I am the new 42. I love my grey hair. I like to watch The Walking Dead. I love to go out on dates and to hold my husband’s hand in public. My next tattoo is waiting for me in my Pinterest boards. I want to listen to Vampire Weekend on my phone nestled in a drinking glass because ear buds remind me of Fahrenheit 451. I want to wear skinny jeans, cardigans, and Chucks. I will cook dinner when I want to, and still don’t like to fold my laundry. I have adult children who are my friends. Gasp. Yes, I play Cards Against Humanity and talk about Game of Thrones with them. I am not trying to be cool and hip, I just want to be alive and do what I like with the people I love.
