“I’m not sure I can get on board with this.” Said my friend as she expertly painted my nails. “It’ll age you.” She met my eyes across the manicure table as if to drill home the point. “Seriously, you’re going to look 10 years older than you do now.”
“What’s wrong with looking your age?” I asked. “And besides, what choice do I have?” I had been having an increasingly more unpleasant reaction to hair dye over the past several months. My beloved hairdresser of 20 years tried a different formula, which wasn’t as bad. And I even jumped ship and went to an all-organic hair salon (feeling a little guilty – like I was cheating on my hairdresser). But my scalp still revolted, turning red and itchy. Just a little less so.
“Maybe the hair gods are telling me it’s time to let go.” I said, hopefully.
“Just don’t let it be the first step in you letting yourself go.” She quipped back.
Ouch! I know she meant well, but I’ll admit that last comment stung a bit. Having worked in the beauty industry her whole career, I can see where my friend is coming from. She’s spent a lifetime helping women delay the inevitable. But the whole raw, itchy head ordeal was forcing me to pause and ponder it. All of it – our obsession with staying young, and our willingness to douse our heads with ammonia and peroxide on a monthly basis, to do so. Anti-aging potions. Anti-wrinkle creams.
Why are we doing this?
Why am I doing this?
What’s so bad about grey hair?
And where are all the PRO-aging products?
Now let me be clear: I am no hero, here. No champion of women. No groundbreaking feminist advocate. Truthfully, if I hadn’t spent 5 months raking my fingernails across my itchy, burning head, I would probably be at the salon right now with a pile of goop on my head, sipping white wine and reading a trashy magazine.
But this reaction to hair dye was a wake-up call. A smack in the proverbial forehead. As someone who is so careful about what I put in my body – I have a vicious reaction to all things gluten – I hadn’t even considered the harsh chemicals I was applying to my body.
I’m 52 and have been sporting long, dark brown hair for several years. Which, truth be told, I love. I love when my guy runs his fingers through my hair while we watch a movie. I love when he says how pretty it is. And I like when people tell me that I don’t look my age. It’s always made me feel good about myself.
But feeling good because people think I’m attractive seems a little silly and shallow to me now. I genuinely like being 52. I like being on this side of menopause. It’s a nice place to be. As cliché as it sounds, I know myself now. You wade through the muck of life for half a century and you begin to figure out what actually matters. I trust my judgement and have the confidence that comes along with that. And I don’t worry about all the trite things I used to. Or crave male attention. I sure as hell know who my friends are, and I give very few fucks about what people think now. (Well, most people anyway. I still care what my Mom thinks of me.) I’m not driven to impress people anymore. If they like me, that’s perfectly lovely. If not, that’s ok too. And you know what else? I’ve stopped saying “I’m sorry” all the time. Because I’m not actually sorry for expressing my opinion or reaching for the same shopping cart you were. These days, instead of automatically saying “I’m sorry,” I just smile and let you have the damn cart.
So I’m doing this. I’m ditching the dye and letting nature take its course. And I actually feel pretty good about it. My two closest friends both took the plunge, and several of my other friends have recently decided to go au naturel too. I’m finding much more support than I ever would have imagined. Over the last few weeks, I’ve been noticing many women who are doing the same. Along with women who clearly never dyed their hair. I sat across from a stunning woman at a board meeting last week with a lovely bob of grey hair. Curious, I googled her when I got back to my office. Her law firm listed her as 38 years old. It made my heart sing, and I may have even whooped a “You go, girl!” out loud. Why haven’t I noticed these women before? Oddly enough, I’m also seeing young women in their 20s who are choosing to dye their hair grey! Have you seen Pink lately? Lady Gaga? Apparently, it’s a trend.
At this point, I’ve got about 3 inches of grey regrowth, against my shoulder-length, brown hair. I don’t expect this will be easy – I’m truly not looking forward to the next few months of awkwardness. There will be doubts. There may be tears. There will definitely be hats. But I’m committed to it. And I’m kind of excited about it. A new phase in my life. A new look. I actually think it will look good on me. In fact, if I could dye my whole head grey right now, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
“You’re really talking yourself into this, aren’t you?” my friend said with a smile as I sat under the nail dryer.
So I told her what my partner, Marc, had said to me a few days before. I had worried aloud that maybe he wouldn’t find me as sexy when my hair was grey. “Babe,” he said, “remember a while ago when you stopped by my office and brought me some tulips you had just bought? You were so excited that spring was finally here and as you arranged them in the vase, you said that you loved tulips because they look pretty no matter what stage they’re in. They’re just as beautiful when the petals are open wide as they are when they’re new and the bulbs are tightly closed.”
Yes. I remembered.
He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me. “You’re my tulip, Babe.”
