By the time I reached 50, the battle with my silver hair had become a daily one. My hair grows incredibly fast—once a blessing in my younger years, now a relentless reminder of time’s passage. I’d leave the salon feeling “fresh” (a hairdresser’s euphemism for covering the greys) and polished, only to have those silver strands peek through within two weeks. It felt like a never-ending cycle.
Then lockdown happened. And with it, an unexpected opportunity. I decided to stop hiding and start embracing my natural self.
You’d think this would be an easy decision. After decades of spending hundreds of dollars each month and sitting for hours in a salon while toxic dye (so potent I could taste it in the back of my throat) was slathered onto my scalp, you’d think I would have welcomed the change. But you’d be wrong.
This was a hell of a big deal.
By letting my silver grow out, I was challenging deeply ingrained cultural norms. In my Lebanese whānau, women dye their hair dark brown or black well into their eighties and even nineties. At a recent funeral, as I stood at the podium reading a eulogy, I scanned the crowd. Not a single silver-haired woman in sight.
And it wasn’t just my Lebanese loved ones (my dad, in particular, has made his opinion very clear—he’s not a fan of my hair). Society at large offers little support for women who choose to age naturally. We’ve been conditioned to believe that silver hair equals irrelevance. Many of my friends have told me they would rather die than go grey. Some vow to dye their hair until their dying day. And I understand. We’ve been taught that there’s nothing less desirable than an old crone, an old lady, an old hag.
But did I really want to keep dousing my head in chemicals just to maintain my appeal to the male gaze? Or even the female gaze? Was I ready to embrace my inner crone?
Thankfully, my husband loves my silver hair. As much as I live for smashing the patriarchy, I have to admit, his support made the transition easier. Without it, I’m not sure I would have had the courage to push through the awkward in-between stages.
And awkward it was. The first year was rough. My hair was a patchwork of silver, leftover blonde dye, and darker natural regrowth. Not exactly a winning combination. But as time passed, my magician of a hairdresser worked his magic, colour-matching my silver and shaping it into a sleek short bob.
And don’t get me wrong, once I committed to the change, most of my loved ones came around. One of my best friends, who had pleaded with me for years not to stop dyeing, finally relented when she saw my determination. Now that people are used to it, they accept and even celebrate this silver-haired version of me. At least to my face.
At 55, I know I’m on the younger side for embracing silver. I still scan crowds, searching for women my age rocking their natural greys. Our numbers are growing, but we remain a minority. And in pop culture? Role models for natural aging are few and far between. But I believe that’s changing. As we seek a deeper connection with nature (to preserve the very planet we call home) I hope we’ll also learn to honour the natural cycles of our own lives.
My sister and my cousin are now embracing their natural colour too, and they both look beautiful.
Most days, I don’t mind looking older. By this age, we’ve lost enough loved ones to understand that aging is a privilege, one many never get to experience.
My darling mum, a stunning Scottish Pākehā who married into my dad’s huge Lebanese family, dyed her hair right up until a few months before her passing at 72. When chemotherapy caused her hair to fall out, she handed clippers to my brother and asked him to shave her head. She looked radiant, her beautiful face glowing, free of dye, free of pretence. We all wondered why she hadn’t embraced her silver sooner.
I like to think she approves of my choice. In life, she urged me to wait just a bit longer before taking the plunge. But now? I feel her smiling down on me, happy that I am living as I truly am, no longer hiding, content with the changes nature has woven into my reflection.
Don’t get me wrong, some days, I feel invisible, like a crone, even a hag on my worst days (haha). But mostly, I feel like me—strong, powerful, free.
Capitalist society is designed to make us feel unworthy, to convince us that we need endless products to stay desirable, relevant, enough. I’m as much a consumer as the next person, but giving up hair dye feels like a small yet powerful act of reclaiming my sovereignty.
And really what’s so bad about aging? I no longer seek the same attention I once did. I relish the peace that comes with being less visible, moving through the world with a quiet confidence, held by the self-acceptance I’ve fought to earn.
Luckily for me—and for everyone around me—I finally have a little less to prove.
The other day, I was at lunch at Prego with an older friend. She told me I was courageous for embracing my silver. I hear that a lot. I’m never quite sure if it’s meant as a compliment.
“I just think I need to be presentable,” she said.
“I think I’m presentable just the way I am,” I replied.
And in that moment, I actually believed it.
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