You cannot write about going gray without including sex.

Gray is the anti-sex color.

One of my friends, a multiple divorcee, was completely gray by forty; a silvery mane that sparkled like she did on good days. By fifty, she was still single but didn’t want to be. Her hairdresser suggested going platinum. Only shades away from her natural silver, the platinum blond did attract more men though I don’t know if she snagged one. We lost touch.

Men don’t automatically become a cliché once their gray comes in; especially men with money. Those guys become distinguished and worthy of women half their age. A man without money sporting gray hair does make me wonder about Viagra, especially if he’s also carrying a spare tire around his middle. All this sounds shallow I’m sure but facts are facts: In our culture, we judge by wrappings. Though some of my best gifts have come wrapped in the ugliest packages, I still enjoy opening a lovely wrapped package. Who doesn’t? Which is why going gray, even gray wrapped in a silver sheen, is not a cultural mores many of us embrace.

One of my girlfriends just won’t acknowledge it. Every once in a while I’ll catch her shooting me a side glance. In her eyes I read ‘What the hell?’ though it could be my own projection. In the early days, my eldest daughter did not like my color shift and, in keeping with the genetic pool she flows from, did not keep her Op-ed to herself. But on Mother’s Day, she began turning the corner. By then, I was a few more shades into silver and she had a few more months to adjust. Her gift to me, along with a gorgeous buttery leather black bag, was this affirmation: “Okay, I’m seeing it now.” Her initial reaction mirrored my own when I first began to appreciate that my mother, a woman who always set the pace, was slowing down. Gray hair can symbolize that. But this ole’ girl still has game left. And now that my eldest has made peace with her fears, at least for now, she’s rooting for my silver to beat out any impulse I have to wash it all away with the box of Clairol Golden Chestnut Brown I keep around just in case.

Male reactions have been interesting. Not long ago I caught my Sweetie, who is silvery white and 100% behind my color shift, giving a statuesque blond the once over. So I posed a question women know men have no right answers to. That’s why we pose them. “Tell me, how often do you give a silver haired woman the once over?” We chuckled as he tiptoed through that mine field sputtering out verbiage about being sure he did.

I live in Newport Beach, California, the capital of ‘money can buy you just about anything including young women with large breasts.’ It’s no secret, men in my age group living here like big breasted young women a lot. I never fit that profile, even in my youth, which is why local men never paid me much mind. I’ve never minded much because men who believe they can have a relationship over any length of time with women young enough to be their daughters are men I have no interest in anyway. So there. Younger men are okay with my silvery hue. My guess is, lots of them are looking for mommy. When my girlfriends tell me younger men are lots of fun, I say they didn’t breast feed long enough though I believe Madonna did. However, her wealth puts her in that league of moneyed men. If serving up her version of mommy-hood to a 22 year-old young stud makes her happy, I say go for it until he doesn’t anymore. She can afford it. I’ve got three daughters whose ages cover the 20’s. That’s enough kids for me.

I’m interested in peer group camaraderie. Those old women singing ‘When I grow up I want to be an old woman’ on TV are women I aspire to be. I see me, an old woman, my long, silvery white braid swaying down my back as I move through a Vinyasa flow class filled with other old women and men.

That’s what I want to be when I grow up, a silver haired old woman. So far, I’m on my way though you never know, I could still go platinum.

Share on Facebook

Embracing the gray.

There’s comes a time in a woman’s life when surrendering no longer conjures up a helpless image. Women who discover their sensuality midway through life know what I’m talking about. Surrender can be a good thing.

I decided to apply this principal to letting my hair be what it is, silver. Were it a dull gray, I might not be blogging about my latest bout with surrender but it isn’t. The women on my mother’s side gray well. When my follicles stopped producing chestnut brown, the color that grew in was silver not gray. My only problem with this color shift was that my follicles decided to do it in my early twenties. By my mid twenties, I’d figured out how to work the salt and peppered effect to my advantage. I was a grad student/psychotherapist wearing a teenager’s face. The silvery sprinkle added a dash to my credibility or so I thought which was why I resisted all temptation to dye it. Fast forward ten years and three kids later; no longer shackled with a teenager’s face, each time I saw my hairdresser, she begged me to color my hair. Eventually, I did.

In my mid forties, I tried reverting to my natural color but the ‘over the hill’ mood I was in needed the kind of boost silvery tresses couldn’t give so I gave up that surrender which pleased the new hairdresser in my life, a man named Eddie, who remains in my life today. Like most hairdressers, Eddie’s not keen on the color gray under any name.

A few months ago, I made up my mind. In a few years, I’ll hit my next big-O birthday. When I arrive, I want to be a silver haired woman who’s earned the respect silver haired women should get. Besides, I am sick and tired of dying my hair. Sick and tired of a stained scalp. Sick and tired of the weekly root touch ups I have to do between visits to Eddie who has now given me his blessing to be who I am. When I sat in his chair and announced my intention to finally come out once and for all, his only reply was “I think you can pull it off.” After ten years of listening to me whine about my eventual surrender to nature’s way, he may have decided it was time to surrender, too.

Unless you are willing to shave your head, the coming out process is slow. Eddie has me on a strict weave and cut schedule. When transformation is complete, I’ll post a new blog and include a photo. However, should the blog and photo not appear, remember, it is always a woman’s prerogative to change her mind. Readers are invited to share thoughts about the maturing of one’s hair and all that it means in your life… or doesn’t.

Share on Facebook