Going Gray Was The Best Decision of My Life
Bring on the invisibility!
I found my first white hair when I was 17. There it was, poking up right at the edge of my forehead just to the left of my center parting.
Feeling rebellious, I chose to leave it be. It was the early 90s and I was surrounded on all sides by toxic femininity, so I was already aware that gray hair should shake my self confidence to the core. That the only option was to pluck it and hope no more grew in.
I wasn’t going to fall into that trap, no ma’am! Over the next few years the single hair became a small collection of white hairs. I thought it made me look a bit like Rogue from the X-men, so it stayed. Plus, who was going to think that a youthful teenager was old just because of a few premature grays?
Family history
My experience wasn’t the first in my family. Pretty much everyone on my dad’s side went white early. My father had a full head of gorgeously thick and wavy salt and pepper hair by the time he was 20. He was completely white by 40.
I inherited premature graying from my dad, but the pattern of the graying came from my mom’s side. This meant only the front, the “bang zone,” went gray. White, actually. The rest is still a rich brown, even though I am knocking on the door of fifty years old.
In my thirties I had fun with it, dying my bangs a different bright color every few weeks. Green, blue, red — red being my favorite.
In my 40s I eschewed the dye and the bangs, instead opting to have a white streak framing each side of my face. I was flattered when people asked me who did my color. No one seemed to believe it was my real hair.
My mother went gray on the average timeline, with her front going gray (not white) in her 40s. At 74 she is salt and pepper, heavy on the salt.
I didn’t want to mimic her struggles with graying. Until she was sixty she dyed her grays. Now she just complains about how people treat her because of the grays.
Hair as a scapegoat
I can’t pretend to understand everything about my mother’s experiences, as we are very different creatures.
Yet, I can’t help but feel she uses gray hair as a scapegoat for all the things she doesn’t like about herself and her choices.
She accuses service people of ignoring her because the gray makes her invisible, never mind that she meekly stands to the side and never voices that she would like assistance. She insists her doctor won’t address her issues because her gray hair means she is old and dotty, never mind that she won’t speak up and tell the doctor what is bothering her. Cut off in traffic? It’s because her gray hair somehow makes her vehicle invisible. Overcharged at the till? It’s because the cashier assumed an old lady couldn’t see to check the receipt.
I see gray hair being used as a scapegoat by women my age, as well. Everything from men not finding us attractive to issues at work or dealing with younger moms that ignore us on the playground is all the fault of our hair color.
Well, I disagree. Sure, some of that is definitely true and ageism is a very real societal problem, but my experience has also shown me that attitude can play a bigger role than many of us give it credit for.
Gray is my super power
I’ve written about this before, but it bears repeating — my hair going white has been a blessing. The whiter it gets, the happier I am.
If I want to be invisible and unseen, I can simply hide behind my white hair. From this vantage I can watch and learn, only stepping from the shadows when the time is right.
When I weave a strand of white through each of my pigtail braids I become visible yet somehow harmless. I morph in the sweet eccentric woman. I can climb trees, play in the mud, sing in public, and create posies out of weeds.
Sometimes I need to be powerful, especially when going up against patriarchal forces. A side part and low chignon behind my left ear gives me an elegant yet business-like look. When teamed up with squared shoulders and a no-nonsense approach, both men and women step out of my way so we can get things done.
Sometimes I prefer to let it go feral. Long and hanging down to my elbows, my hair becomes a wild thing. It’s fine and wavy, so it surrounds me like a floating aura of hippie power. In this state I am at my most visible and my most ignored. I can do anything at this moment, for although everyone can see me none have the courage to stop me. They simply look away or watch mesmerized, but they do not interfere.
This is feral crone mode. I can use it to stand up to someone that is bullying an unhoused person, or to take an animal out of the arms of someone that is violently mistreating it. I can shut down a bigot or get a needed service for a friend.
I am fierce and wise (or at least I give the appearance of both).
This is power, raw and fearsome. I am careful to only summon it in times of need, so that it is not lost to overuse.
The rest of the time I smile behind my cloak of invisibility. For much of my girlhood and early adulthood, being seen was unavoidable and it often came with unwanted attention from hungry male eyes and critical female ones.
Now I can choose when and in what manner I wish to be visible. If that isn’t a super power, then I don’t know what is.
Jenny Wren is an essayist, artist, and gardener. You can find more of her work on her blog Jenny Wren Studios, or via her publication The Yew Tree.
