Grey expectations: a lifelong drama to dye for

The first intruder arrived decades ago with no fanfare. Hidden, waiting to be discovered. In no rush to make the arrival announcement that would send my voice quivering with disbelief, then raised in anger. But upon my discovery, I immediately picked up my phone and made the emergency call I knew had to be made.

“Mom!” I wailed into the phone “I HAVE A GREY HAIR!"

I’m sure it was best that this was in the days of rotary phones where the eye rolls of my Mom, along with the suppression of her combined laughter and mild annoyance at my drama, could not be seen, only guessed at. 

To her credit, she gave the situation the perspective it deserved.

“Oh I’m sure it’s just the first of many. Did you look for more? Both your grandmas were grey young."

"Not helping, Mom. I’m 24. I’m young. I’m hot. All the boys (well, almost all the boys) are crushing on me. This isn’t supposed to happen until I’m YOUR age."

With no support from my mom, I was left to solve this on my own and I did. With henna colours and box colours and salon colours. And I’ve been dying my hair ever since.

I thought about this today as I sat in my hairdresser's chair. About fighting the battles but not winning the war. I thought about all of the time and all of the money I’ve spent over the years to cover up those intruders only for them to re-emerge again. It took longer for them to come back when I was younger but now I’m colouring my roots every four weeks. 

How long am I going to fight the battle? And why am I?

So many of my girlfriends have made the decision to stop colouring their hair. And their results are beautiful. They look graceful, elegant. The grey hairs I dread look artful threading their locks. 

When My Favourite Husband was alive, he tried numerous times to get me to stop colouring my hair. He’d use different tactics to do so: 

“My Mom looks great and she’s let her hair go.” (I loved his mom but 'letting it go' did not work).

"You’re colouring the walls more than your hair.” (No problem, I’ll go to a salon.) 

“You’re gorgeous no matter what your hair colour is.” (Thanks.)

“Look, I have grey in my hair, too, and it looks good.” (You’re also losing your hair and look good,  so no.)

 

No matter how much he cajoled, chirped or supported, I was having none of it. I was colouring my hair until the day I was not.

But it’s getting to be a chore and not a pleasure. And an increasing expense. My hairdresser is amazing and she’s agreed to do my hair every fourth month as long as I use “professional products" at home to do the roots monthly. It’s definitely helped with costs. 

But I let it go a little longer this last time. I wanted to see what colour of grey would come in if I let it go. I wanted to test the waters. 

I was hoping for a beautiful silver and, if that’s what would’ve shone through, I might have been tempted to make the decision to not dye. But it’s not. And so, wavering, I booked an appointment for a cut and colour. And I’d decide when I was in the chair.

I pulled my hair into a pony and clipped in barrettes for my bangs. And when I arrived at the salon, the woman I have complete trust in with my hair knew we were going to have the talk.

She would do whatever I wanted but what I wanted was to talk this out with her. We talked about my age and she again reminded me she was surprised because my number and my attitude didn’t match. She asked how I felt about my greys and I told her ambivalent. She asked how I felt with my hair coloured and I told her vibrant. Even I could see I wasn’t ready for this change.

Is it vanity? Could be. Although unlike when I was 24, I know I’m not young, I’m not hot and no boys are crushing on me. But I like how I look with my roots the same colour as the rest of my hair. I like how I look. And no one else matters. No other reason matters. 

So I sat in her chair and read my book while, once again, her expertise worked its magic. And when I left, I felt good about fighting the battle another month. I felt good about me.