BEAUTY/ AGEISM/ FEMININITY

When I Stopped Coloring My Hair, I Started to Experience the Ageism All Around Me

It hit me when I was filling out an application for a renewed driver’s license.

Eye color: Brown.

Hair color: Brown. Erase that. Gray? White? Salt and pepper?

There should be a box for yes.

I have always had a fixation on my hair. All my life, I sported curly ringlets, which often became even curlier in hot, humid weather. As a child, I was oblivious to it and received many oooohs and aahs from my mom, from my aunts, and from other adult women in my life who went bananas over the natural curl.

It wasn’t until I turned 13 that I realized the preferred hairstyle was pin straight. That was the ‘60s. Long, straight, blonde. I made a conscious decision to look like every model I’d ever seen in Seventeen magazine, so I slept with my hair wrapped around my head and pinned it with metal clips so no curl would go unmastered.

This was quite an attractive picture, coupled with my metal braces! I would set it using an extra firm gel and 3 large orange juice containers.

Yes, I ironed it. In the days before curling irons, it was Mom’s clothing iron that worked best. I’d flip my head over the board and iron away, happy with the temporary result of straight hair even though it *pouf* created a small whiff of smoke with each stroke of the iron.

I’d sweat it if the humidity changed and zing the curls returned often with a frizz to match. Once on a date, I got caught in a rainstorm and my date looked at me, ringlets abounding, and said, “You’ve never looked so beautiful. Don’t ever hide those curls.” I promptly broke up with him the next day.

I reached a level of surrender in college, where I gave up and let the curls go nuts. It was the ‘70s. Big hair was in and I had very, very wide hair. My friends had hair that grew in length. Mine grew in width. The joke was that I knew I needed a haircut when I had to walk sideways through a doorway in order to fit.

I never turned back on the curls dilemma. Acceptance achieved. I learned to enjoy the curls and still do today. Then, I started to see gray.

My gray is Italian gray. It becomes stiff and pokey so I ultimately have white strands of drier hair poking out of soft brown curls.

Much like my temperament, the gray is resistant to change and makes itself known. My hairdresser at the time called it highly resistant gray hair. Clever. It needed an extra treatment to successfully color and cover the gray. More time. More money. Less success.

Fast forward.

With the birth of two children came postpartum hair loss. Although it made me self-conscious, I was also more appreciative of the hair I had. Eventually, my hair came back and stayed until the stressors in my life made me lose it in large quantities. That, too, eventually settled down.

But gray. No way. Initially, I had it colored in a salon as soon as I could see the fine line of white roots erupt. I did that until I hurt my neck and could no longer put my head in the bowl to get a rinse, so I bought the boxes and did it at home, poorly at first — better with practice.

However, time went on and as I became more gray than brown, it got harder and harder to cover the gray.

Then COVID hit.

I switched to a temp color in hopes of gradually letting it grow out to see if I could tolerate it as gray. One tiny benefit of COVID was that because we were not seeing anyone else other than on occasional Zoom calls, I felt comfortable ignoring whatever was happening on my head. It worked. I was ready. Or so I thought.

My hairdresser told me I had about two months left before I would have no remnants of dye in my hair. And I was off to the races. She gave me a very short haircut.

I’d like to be able to say, “ Voila! So comfortable and free!” but that wasn’t the case for me. I was tentative and initially, very uncomfortable. But I felt a little fascinated too. The effect it had on others was surprising.

I felt like I was wearing a rubber nose and glasses when I went out. People who knew me didn’t recognize me and looked twice. That tickled me. Once I met a friend at a restaurant and I told her I would get us a table and wait inside. She couldn’t find me. She later admitted she was looking for someone with dark hair. I was getting a kick out of this. Obviously, it doesn’t take much to entertain me.

The comments began:

“You know you look like Prue Leith. You know who she is?”

“It’s hip, Mom, kinda hip.”

At the checkout, a drugstore clerk asked, “Are you 50, 60, 70? I can never tell with old people. Want the senior discount?” Of course, I said yes.

The airport security checker stopped me, “Ma’am, this way, please. Old folks get to use the shorter line.” Old folks. That stuck in my head.

Several days ago, I was observing a book club designed to support new adult readers. They were reading a play and signing up for parts. One part left: an old woman. The class looks at me. Typecast again.

A clerk helping me in a clothing store piped up, “You know gray doesn’t go with our skin. Ever think of dying your hair? We’re Italian and have an olive cast. Brown looks so much better.” I could see hers was box brown, flat, unidimensional, and likely, done in her kitchen sink.

A second clerk comes over, unsolicited, and is much more sensitive. “Just buy jewel colors: navy, emerald green, garnet. You’ll perk right up. Ditch the beige and khaki.”

“Of course, you can pull off gray,” said one of my favorite cousins. It was a really helpful comment, timed perfectly when I almost turned back.

​Recently, I took a class and was the only person over a certain age who sat on a real chair rather than on the floor. Afterwards, a young man who took the class and sat next to me asked, “Can I hug you? You remind me of my grandmother. I think it’s your hair.”

I said “Um… yes.” (You read that right. Surprised myself by hugging the dude.)

Let me throw this out there. I am not judging anyone who dyes or does not dye. Stick with the L’Oreal if it makes you feel good. Rock on pinks, purples, and blues. But for me, I’m never going back.

Going gray is simultaneously liberating and eye opening. In a culture that values youth and shames aging, you are bait for those who enjoy criticism.

It’s constant. But I just don’t care. And that is a bit of a blast.

Yep, my eyebrows are thinning, my eyelashes are nearly gone and all over my body, there is hair where it shouldn’t be and none where it should be. I will spare you the details.

The light bulb came on fully when I could finally take Mom, then 90 years old, to the beauty salon for a color and cut. She always had colored her hair and was meticulous about it, until COVID hit. Her roots were very long and the hairdresser and I talked her into trying it gray.

She reluctantly agreed to stay gray, or really white, I should say, bright white. Her hair was nothing short of stunning. I blew it dry each time she showered, so I knew how its condition improved. But seeing her stand with her black jacket over her shoulders, I watched it glisten in the sun. She was beautiful. Really beautiful. That was the turning point. No turning back now.

I wanted that. ASAP.

Now, I have it and am loving it, mostly.

Full disclosure, I am learning to like growing older. Things sink and sag and change ever so fast, but I do like growing more at ease with myself.

Treating aging like a quirky friend that has come to visit and is going to stay longer than planned is, well, fun. And, by the way, I just bought two new navy shirts. Cool.