I Thought Going Gray Meant I’d Stopped Caring about My Looks. Then the Compliments Started
I can’t think of a better decision I’ve made in my 50s than going gray. Getting there, however, tested me in ways I didn’t expect.
Despite having been a social conformist all my life, I decided to go gray cold turkey: I simply let the dye grow out, a thick strip of gray hair widening along my side part.
Going cold turkey felt like a radical act of defiance, my way of announcing: From now on, I’ll stop caring about what others think and do whatever I damn well please, thank you very much. It was also my way of gradually befriending my new look as the line between gray and brown crept down a fraction of an inch each day.
Just as I’d hoped, my decision instantly freed me from the expensive, psychologically wicked, and time-consuming tyranny of dyeing the roots, which, like stubborn weeds in a garden, emerged just days after the last coloring, demanding they be covered or else I’d look old, which much of human society equates with ugly.
What I didn’t predict, though, was how others would react to my transition and what their reactions would reveal.
At first, when my roots were one inch long, no one said anything, and I wondered whether friends and acquaintances who were unaware of my project thought I was depressed or just really busy. When folks looked at me funny, I imagined them asking themselves and each other: What’s wrong with Daniella? She’s too young to let herself go! Should I say something to her?
As for those who did know of my plan, they probably thought I’d give it up sooner or later. I didn’t hold it against them one bit. Honestly, it crossed my mind many times to go back, especially during the stage when my sideburn roots stuck out from the still-brown hair that cascaded over them. I felt so darn ugly.
My adult son, Diego, who’s developmentally disabled and as honest as a 4-year-old, helped me get through this depressing stage.
“Your hair’s turning white,” he noted one day.
I explained my going-gray decision and asked whether he liked my hair better brown or gray. He chatted about brown bears having brown fur and then declared me to be like a mother polar bear.
“You look like Elsa,” he said another time, referring to the white-haired Disney princess from the movie Frozen.
Well, I find mother polar bears to be beautiful. And Elsa? What 54-year-old woman wouldn’t be flattered to hear she looks like Elsa?
Thanks, Diego!
Next came the phase when the roots had grown out enough to broadcast to the world that I wasn’t just busy or depressed. This period begat two types of comments, depending on the hair color status of the woman—always a woman—doing the commenting.
“I went gray five years ago and I’ll never go back,” gray- and silver-haired women would uniformly say, which was encouraging. These were my silver sisters, bold women who didn’t attach their sense of self to their looks. Or so I told myself.
Women with colored hair, on the other hand, would say something like, “Boy, you’re brave. I could never do it,” or “It’s gonna look great on you once it all grows out. It’s too bad it wouldn’t look good on me.” I took both kinds of comments to be well-intentioned but self-deceiving.
Depending on my mood and the moment, I’d either stay quiet or make conversation.
“Me? Brave? I’m a coward, really, and it took me forever to go for it. You can do it!” or, “No, no, no, gray doesn’t look better on me than it might on you. Believe me, you can’t know until you do it,” I might say. I’d tell them about all the extra money and time I now had. I’d try to convey that you should color your hair only because you want to, not because you feel you have to.
I’m now 57, and any last vestige of brown pigment is gone. My hair reaches almost halfway down my back, the same length I kept it pre-gray.
Walking around with long gray hair is like walking around with a dog or a baby. It invites positive social overtures: For the first time in decades, random strangers are complimenting me on my hair, and I love it.
This last development has been the most unexpected, humbling and revealing.
I was running a 5K when a younger runner pushing a stroller turned her head and shouted, “I love your gray!” Just the boost I needed to pick up the pace. That’s when it hit me: I’ve been relying on other people’s approval all along. Were it not for Diego and my silver sisters, I’d have gone back to coloring.
I was lying to myself three years ago: I’m as vain as I’ve ever been, and I very much give a damn about what others think. I get Botox for Chrissake! I stay gray because, yes, my hair is healthier and I save time and money, but that’s not the main reason. Ultimately, I stay gray because, in my case, gray doesn’t mean old. Instead, my gray paints me as original, brave and confident.
One reason I’ve come to this conclusion is that the women complimenting me are either younger than me or just a bit older. Like me, they wouldn’t think to compliment a 90-year-old woman on her silver hair. In fact, they’d hardly notice it. At that age, it’s OK for a woman to look old, to let herself go, as we say. These women notice me because they can relate. Deep down, they’re thinking, “She looks great with gray hair. Maybe I can pull it off too!”
My gray may make me look brave and confident, but in the end, I’m no braver or more confident than a woman who colors her hair. So who knows? As much as I love my gray hair right now, maybe I’ll color it again someday—when the compliments stop.
Daniella Mini is a writer and disability advocate.
All views expressed in this article are the author’s own.
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