One of my convictions that I’ve held onto throughout my twenties is that I would not be one of those women who try to hide the fact that they are ageing. I would be like my mother and I would age gracefully, and gratefully. I would go into my later adult years accepting my laugh lines, my wrinkles, and my grey hairs as signs that I have lived a full and amazing life and have many more years to live life to its fullest potential. I would not fight my age, I would be thankful for it and I would greet each year that I lived with a hug and a smile.
I truly believed that is how my later years would go. I’ve even started practising how to age gracefully and gratefully by greeting each new birthday with a smirk, a hug, and by wondering what shenanigans I would get into with my new age at my side. This morning changed all of that. This morning, at the ripe old age of 26, I found my first grey hair. It was right up front and centre too. There was no hiding it. There it was.
My first grey hair.
There I was standing in front of my mirror, doing my daily self -check to make sure that I didn’t forget anything vital.
Pants on? Check.
Underwear on correctly? Check.
Shirt on? Check.
Deodorant on? Check.
Make-up and hair done? Check and check.
At that point I ran my fingers through my hair and pushed it off my face. And there it was, glinting the the bright lights of my bathroom. The grey hair. Immediately I started to dig at my hair much like a monkey digs for bugs on whatever monkey happens to be nearby. Sadly, I wasn’t looking for snacks. I was looking for the awful sign of my coming years. It tried to hide, but I was persistent. The whole time I was grumbling about the fact that this was the one genetic trait I’d hoped not to get from my fathers side of the family. I hadn’t planned for early grey hairs. But there it was. Plucked gracelessly from my scalp by the root, I looked at it. Begging the hair to just be a weird blond hair. Laying it down on my black shirt to try and convince myself it was golden rather than silver.
But it wasn’t. It was grey.
So I burned it. I don’t know why, but I felt like I should make an example of this hair for the rest that may or may not come. Any hair that dared to be even one shade of grey would be plucked and burned with extreme prejudice.
You see, I’d planned to age gracefully and gratefully, but I hadn’t planned to do any of that until my thirties. I figured with how often I die my hair, by the time I was 30, my hair would deserve to do whatever it wanted. I figured I would let it choose its own colour at that stage in life.
So yeah. That ageing gracefully and gratefully thing is gone. Apparently it’s time to start preparing to die my hair to hide what I am now calling “The Greyenning”.