"No. I refuse to dye my hair any longer. I am intentionally going gray."
"But you're so young!"
Do those sentences give you any sort of reaction?
Do you automatically assume those conversing are women?
I know I would have.
Men go gray and become distinguished.
Women go gray and people's reactions are very mixed.
Why is this?
In fact when aging men dye their hair, they are sometimes subjected to ridicule.
Why?
When you think of gray haired women, do you have any overriding images?
Do you think of your grandmother, if you were lucky enough to have known her?
Do you think of feminists protesting against the patriarchy?
Do you think of matronly cat ladies who are "letting themselves go"?
Do you think of celebrities starting new trends by dying their hair purply silver?
Or do you think Jane Fonda who recently sat in a colorist's chair for 7 hours to get her real color back for the Oscars so that she, presumably, can appeal to an even broader audience of women?
Whew!
Maybe you just think, hey, she's embracing her authentic self.
That's what I'm going with.
That's me holding the phone. I am 50 and I am gray. It's been a righteous journey.
I started seeing gray hairs, I think, when I was in my 30s; tough to tell because I had been adding color to my hair in one way, shape, or form, since I was thirteen and in the 9th grade. I had spray in colors, temporary dyes, glitters, metallic mousses, and more. Anything I could get my color starved hands on, I'd put in or on my hair.
I started seeing gray hairs, I think, when I was in my 30s; tough to tell because I had been adding color to my hair in one way, shape, or form, since I was thirteen and in the 9th grade. I had spray in colors, temporary dyes, glitters, metallic mousses, and more. Anything I could get my color starved hands on, I'd put in or on my hair.
I had professional help in college when the cherry coke color craze hit my campus in the late 1980s, courtesy of all the hip and fashion forward Long Island girls. I, too, wanted a dark brown dye with pomegranate overtones. A birthday present from my father, he booked me a visit at a Paul Mitchell salon for that look where the tip alone was more than 50 dollars. I left the chair, sprayed on my Designer Imposter version of Dior's Poison perfume, yanked on my black studded Zodiac cowboy boots and boom! It was a Cher in Moonstruck look.
When glam metal bands like Motley Crue and Guns n Roses became a monumental phenomenon I got my crazy curls frosted by a cap wielding wizard, named Sandy or Candy or Brandy, I can't remember which. I left the salon, cranked up my car stereo, pulled a single large gleaming cross earring out of the pocket of my white fringed leather jacket and hit the road, dizzy from the joy of a hot new look...and possibly hairspray fumes. My boyfriend had an internship at the coolest local radio station and got free tickets and backstage passes to everything that swung through the area. Between his long black hair and Drakkar Noir and my fresh frosty 'do and Exclamation, we were ebony and ivory, a deliciously olfactible pair. One night after a show, Jason Bonham offered to sign my clavicle, but I think the heir apparent to Bonzo, who was clearly working on growing his own rock and roll mane, just wanted to get a close up look at my wintry crowning glory.
After a few years of choosing colors not found in nature, I started sensing that my hair was wearing me instead of me wearing my hair; plus a trusted advisor (well, I'm not sure how much I trusted her but she had a real career) told me if I was going to get a decent job after college I needed a more delicate look. A demure look. A hire me because I am not out until 2 am drinking Bacardi look. So I got a chin length bob, colored light brown.
Then, when the great paying highly coveted job didn't work out the way I'd hoped despite having that perky lil' Debbie Gibson look, I shaved it all off, or, rather, paid a beauty school student to shave it off. In addition to just about scalping me, the eighteen year old amateur colorist attempted to dye the remaining stubble pink (her idea...I was just along for the cheap and tawdry ride at that point). The dye didn't take on my hair but it did adhere beautifully to my scalp and gave me a jumbo Easter egg look.
Upon driving home, alternating between hysterical laughter and heinous wailing every time I caught a glimpse of myself, I also saw that the pink tint had dribbled and dripped down and stained the sides of my neck but good. There was no scrub in my bathroom (or possibly the universe) that could get it off. The next day at work my boss told me I looked as if I'd been bludgeoned (her exact words.) She also quietly but energetically moved me from the front counter where I'd been interacting with the public (I worked in an office) to the very back of the room. I didn't care. I was secretly pleased to have been able to listen to my Red Hot Chili Peppers CD without anyone bothering me, grooving at my desk chair like a headphone wearing Funky Monk (track four on Blood Sugar Sex Magik).
Then, when the great paying highly coveted job didn't work out the way I'd hoped despite having that perky lil' Debbie Gibson look, I shaved it all off, or, rather, paid a beauty school student to shave it off. In addition to just about scalping me, the eighteen year old amateur colorist attempted to dye the remaining stubble pink (her idea...I was just along for the cheap and tawdry ride at that point). The dye didn't take on my hair but it did adhere beautifully to my scalp and gave me a jumbo Easter egg look.
Upon driving home, alternating between hysterical laughter and heinous wailing every time I caught a glimpse of myself, I also saw that the pink tint had dribbled and dripped down and stained the sides of my neck but good. There was no scrub in my bathroom (or possibly the universe) that could get it off. The next day at work my boss told me I looked as if I'd been bludgeoned (her exact words.) She also quietly but energetically moved me from the front counter where I'd been interacting with the public (I worked in an office) to the very back of the room. I didn't care. I was secretly pleased to have been able to listen to my Red Hot Chili Peppers CD without anyone bothering me, grooving at my desk chair like a headphone wearing Funky Monk (track four on Blood Sugar Sex Magik).
Hair color was amusing to me because I could alternate my look on a whim. For me, it was like changing costumes backstage in a play...ahem...in the next scene I will be playing Marion the Librarian...please queue the cat eyed glasses and the blonde pageboy! But then when the gray became quite pronounced and I started coloring purely to conform to societal norms of what was young and pretty, I began buying boxed color and dying at home. If you've never had to do this, consider yourself lucky. It penetrates your nose like a nasal spray made of ammonia and daggers, the gloves in the box made to protect your skin are sized to fit Jiminy Cricket and you'd better be damn sure not splatter it on the walls or any porous surfaces, like towels or clothing. I hated every stinky, hand cramping, collar ruining minute of it and when all was said and done, my hair, but for all the effort, didn't look that snazzy either.
Once I became able to afford it, I went to the salon and had it dyed - a two step process of root coloring and foil bleaching. I admit, it looked amazing but after 19 years of that I just decided to stop cold turkey. First, I had a horrifyingly bad color experience, then a growing lack of resources, increasing sensitivity to chemicals, and a chronic illness so I just quit it all and never looked back.
It's been two and a half years of silver growth and I am ecstatic about how it looks. I've honestly never felt more beautiful. As a bonus, I joined a new community of online silver sisters who are the most bad assed beauties. We are taking back our authenticity, our natural sparkly silver colors, our ideas of what it means to age beautifully and gracefully. These ladies have taught me that hair color is only one piece of reclaiming our true and beautiful selves. Some of them have lost their hair due to medical treatments and when it grew back silver they decided to just love what is. I am learning a lot from all of their examples; there are so many brave middle aged women in our group enjoying new adventures. They're quitting jobs that no longer serve them and going after more joyful means of making money. They are unearthing and embracing ideas that they have had but somehow put aside all their adult lives. They're stepping out of relationships that no longer serve or support them. They're being more creative through art and words and song. I am so grateful to be a part of it all.
My newest silver sister girlfriend is Silvana Bishop. A chanteuse, she sings from the heart, records herself in harmony, and puts her side by side style videos on YouTube. English is not her mother tongue so not only is she taking a chance baring her soul for the world but she is performing in another language. I love her spirit. I love her intrepidness. I love her voice. I love that she started showcasing her talent once she went gray and genuineness just came pouring out of her. If you want to see what embracing your natural hair color can inspire you to do next, look no further than Silvana.
P.S. I'm not sure if my You're Such a Lovely Audience We'd Like to Take You Home blog post inspired her but I'd like to think so. This is her latest cover.
Enjoy.
#1970s #1980s #Bonham #goinggray #silversister #silverhairsupport #silverfoxy #rhcp #janefondagray #redhotchilipeppers #motleycrue #gunsnroses #mushroomtumbler
