Across the silver finish line

According to my calendar, one year ago today I made a momentous decision. Well, at least a weirdly life-changing one. Yes, one year ago I did this for the very last time:

I threw out my Hair Coloring robe about a half hour later.

I wasn’t sure how long it would take for the layers of Garnier Truffle #50 to fade away, grow out, and get cut off. But I knew I wanted to be naturally me before my 50th birthday and wanted to give myself plenty of time to get there.

Now, with almost exactly two months to go before I hit the Big Five Oh, I have met my goal with lots of time to spare (goal-oriented much?). It actually only took about 4 months to ditch the fake hair color. Three cheers for hair that grows fast and having no fear in wearing it super short!

Given my silver streak speed, the past 8 months have been spent adjusting to the new reflection in the mirror. It’s honestly been a lot easier than I anticipated.

These days, when I look at photos of myself from the last 5 years or so, all I see is a Darth Vader helmet of hair. Despite what my friend's 80-year-old mother continues to insist (she's my last remaining veeerrry vocal critic), my boxed color was too dark and too much of a contrast with my middle-aged complexion. I had no idea! I also look like I am trying too hard in those Truffled pictures; there’s a little bit of a discomfort or edge or fear (of roots showing or of being found out…either one).

Taken one year ago today as my official "Before" photo.
Golly, I look rather panicked don't I?

Much to my relief, I quite like the new multi-toned silver hat I’m wearing now. I like the mix of bright white to dark brown (in the back) swirling around in a chaotic yet coordinated blend. It looks much more interesting than anything all those chemicals ever produced. And as a result, I think I look generally more relaxed even despite the insane life stress of the past several months.

Today, one year later. 
New hair, new glasses, new lipstick, better lighting.

Despite being happy with the color, I have struggled a bit. I’m still trying to figure out the style. Although I surprisingly really enjoyed the super short pixie (boy hair is ridiculously easy to manage), I tried to grow out my hair. Both Rob and I had hopeful anticipation of the long waves of my grade school years.

4th grade mass-o-hair

I lasted 7 months. Turns out I just can’t handle long hair anymore. Sorry, Rob.

My growing locks were driving me nuts when I vainly had to worry about my hairstyle in the wind. And my hair was so floppy and heavy, I felt like a sheepdog was sleeping on my head. When the waves started doing rip curls, I knew I was done. Chop chop.

I’m still not “there” yet with my eventual style but I think I’m getting close. Maybe in time for my half-century birthday.

I have been disappointed not to be offered more senior discounts. It was looking very promising there in the beginning, with two discounts in two months. Yay Walgreens and Fred Meyer!! But that has been it. Boo! I haven’t been bold enough to ask for any discounts yet. Somehow, I keep thinking I need to wait until I’m at least in the right decade. Two more months, two more months.

I have noticed that I am more noticeable now. It’s a little disconcerting since I prefer to sort of blend into the scenery. Instead, now with my shiny silver head, people with their own silver keep smiling at me, saying hi, striking up conversations in grocery stores and airports and such. Apparently I’m safe? Or maybe they figure I’m old enough to remember when strangers used to talk nicely to each other. Either way, I have to say that seniors are quite friendly and welcoming. I’m digging being in their club.

I have also noticed men in their 30s seem to stare at me. Not with any romantic interest, just with curiosity. I have no idea why, other than perhaps they are trying to figure out how old I am.

In my Truffle days, people typically assumed I was in my late 30s (bless them). Now with my white hair, I’m thinking maybe my hair and my face don’t compute?

Interestingly, in every hospital I visited this year (and truly, that is not a statistic I really want to repeat), nurses spontaneously start talking to me about my skin. One even asked about what products I use. People never mentioned my skin when I had Truffle hair. I’m guessing my face does not look like it should have white hair all around it. Which is actually super fun. I love making people wonder.

Overall, hair-wise, the past year has been more enjoyable, more enlightening, and easier than I anticipated. Honestly, I sort of wish it had taken longer to completely transition to silver. It was unexpectedly exciting to see the natural roots grow in and push the fake color out. I actually quite liked the anticipation of not knowing where my color was going to end up.

I have no regrets about making this frivolously momentous change, other than waiting as long as I did to do it. It would have been fun to see the transition reveal itself naturally…or at least from about age 44 or 45. But I wasn’t ready then. Now, though, I am absolutely ready to embrace my 50s as naturally and as authentically as I can muster, my silver head held high with anticipation and no fear.

The good, the bad, and the gray

Early on I promised several people that I would blog the heck out of this “going gray” adventure. I’ve tried to hold to that promise while not hijacking my own blog with one repetitive topic (never mind about The Fair. 113 more days!). That being said, we’re going to talk hair again today. But I think we’re nearing the Silver Finish Line. WHOO!

The last time I wrote about my transition from “Truffle #50” to “I Think It’s Going to Be Awfully White,” I had just returned from visiting Rob’s family with my new super short pixie cut. Things were going pretty well.

Two months later, things are still progressing nicely but there sure has been some learning and insight along the way. I’ve been taking notes. Seriously. I have about a page and a half of them. I’m just that sort of dedicated blogger.

I’ve had two pixie cuts now. I’m pretty sure I’m done with them even though there have been some AMAZING benefits to having Boy Hair. Like, with very little hair to play with, I am done “doing my hair” in mere seconds.

When we were in the Caribbean a few weeks ago, it was incredible to get out of the ocean, dry my head with a towel, run my fingers through my hair to make sure I didn’t look like Alfalfa, and that’s it. No gel, no mirror, DONE. Boys have it so easy! No wonder they are mystified how we women folk spend so much time getting ready.

Wash and wear hair!

I’m still not doing much with my short hair, but I am looking forward to it growing out a bit. I don’t feel like my hair has much of a style at the moment. I’m not sure what style I’m aiming for, since my hair’s texture has already changed and I’m anticipating it will continue to surprise me as it gets longer.

For now, I’m thrilled with how soft my salt and pepper is and I’m happy to see it still has a fair amount of wave. In my coloring days, all my white, color-resistant hair pointed straight out like I had stuck my finger in a socket. With no color, I was a little concerned I might suddenly end up with the uber straight hair I once coveted in the ‘70s. So far, no Dorothy Hamill Wedge in my future. A collective sigh of relief.

I can tell by the hairs that land on my shirt or in the bathroom sink that I am not yet completely done with my transition. Although I think the biggest shock is over, there is still more white to come. Some light brown, almost blonde tips remain on a number of hair strands around my head. As I continue to get trims, things will likely get a bit whiter. I’m ready for it. I think. There’s still some stuff to learn, though.

As the dark frame around my face has become much lighter, it’s become clear that all the color rules I once knew for clothes and make-up need to be revamped. I used to wear green shirts with full knowledge that my hazel eyes would pop out of my head. Now, not so much. Oddly, blues and pewters are working better than they used to, as are strong pastels like turquoise and coral. I haven’t tried yellows or browns yet; my gut says those colors might be leaving my closet soon.

I have also noticed that I look better in solid or very minimal prints. With so much swirl of white and gray and black going on on my head – the head that used to be a rather uniform Truffley color -- busy prints on my shirts combined with a swarm of grayscale make me feel like a jumbled, chaotic mess of color and pattern. Clearly, I will be going wardrobe shopping in the near future. Ugh.

That's about the boldest print I can wear at the moment.
In other news, CORAL DINING ROOM!
"Love Boat" fans will understand

I’m not really much of a make-up person. Several years ago I actually had to ask a younger friend to teach me how to use eyeliner (I rightly suspected that the techniques I honed in the tubular ‘80s were no longer relevant or wise). So it’s been a surprise that I’ve recently found myself playing with darker lipsticks, darker eye shadows, and that I have ever so lightly put my toe in the very trendy water of Eye Brow Obsession.

My goal with all three cosmetic playgrounds is to try to add some contrast back. What used to be an olive-ish face with a dark brown frame is now sort of an unrestricted blend of pale. I’ll be stopping by a make-up counter soonish, as I’m still sort of clueless about what I’m doing. I also suspect new glasses frames are in my future. But I’m waiting to find out if I finally need bifocals first. Ah, 49.

I was surprised how much I liked my Hipster Glasses
with my silver hair.  I think slightly longer hair
will work better with them.

With all these changes, it’s been quite amusing that I am apparently unrecognizable. Early on after The Shocking Pixie, people at church stared right at me, confused who the visitor was. Other people have wondered who that woman looking so cozy with Rob is and if Toni knows about her. A couple of weeks ago, I ran into a friend’s ex-husband at a restaurant. Given how their marriage ended…and that he was on a date…I braced myself for a brief, awkward, uncomfortable conversation. I looked at him, smiled, and realized by the blank look on his face that he had no idea who the gray haired woman smiling at him was. It was quite lovely and such a relief. Hallelujah for being boldly incognito!

Overall I have received tons of support and encouragement for my new look. Just in the past few weeks, a number of friends have spontaneously told me … some even going out of their way to seek me out to share … how much they like my gray hair. A few women have said, “If I knew my hair would look like yours, I would have stopped coloring years ago.” That is a huge compliment right there. Perhaps the biggest compliment, though, is that four friends have now decided to join me in my Silverdom. Four friends including Patti, my hair stylist. I was blown away by the white streak in her hair the last time I saw her. I clearly have her sincere support.

Truly, that is part of why I decided to blog about this small but enormous change – to hopefully share some of the fears and triumphs and mysteries and joys of this surprisingly revealing path. And to perhaps encourage other women to consider going through the evolution themselves. A woman’s hair color shouldn’t really be that big of a deal. And it typically isn’t. Unless that color is gray. Then it’s a HUGE THING. Because women aren’t supposed to have gray hair. Unless they are really old. Thanks, society and beauty industry “standards.”

And that brings us to the not-so-awesome experiences of Going Gray.

I’ve had a few friends painfully live by the rule “If you can’t say something nice don’t say anything at all.” Those silences have been awkward.

More awkward, though, was the older woman who hadn’t seen me in several months. At first she didn’t recognize me with my silver hair. Then, barely taking a breath, she launched into an unprompted dissertation about how she liked my skin’s contrast with my dark hair much better, she couldn't imagine why I wanted to dye my hair gray (??), and that maybe I would decide on a whim to go back to dark brown since I looked much better that way. Oh, and I look younger with gray hair. Yes, gray hair not the dark brown. I was sort of left silently blinking at her, trying to process all that she was saying while at the same time concluding that apparently 81 is the age at which we get to speak our minds with abandon.

Perhaps the biggest stumble so far was about 6 weeks ago. I was in Walgreens, unaware that it was the first Tuesday of the month. I was at the register and had my head down as I was rifling through my purse for my wallet. As I poked around, I heard the older, silver-haired cashier ask, “And do you qualify for our Senior Discount today?”

I didn’t answer at first because surely she wasn’t talking to me. But then I realized that she was staring at the top of my head. My very gray head. I looked up and smiled and said, “I don’t think so. I’m 49?”

She focused on me in bewilderment, likely wondering how I could be younger than her, and then said, “Oh, I guess not.”

Naturally, I Googled when I got home and discovered that the first Tuesday of every month Walgreens offers a 20% discount for customers 55 and older. 55 and older?!? She thought I was 55?!? But wait. 20%?!?

Yeah, next time I’m totally saying yes.

I took this picture in the car in the Walgreens parking lot.
Then to make myself feel better, I ran it through that
fun "How Old Do I Look" app.
I quite like the app and its confidence-saving "Gray Hair Don't Care" algorithm.

Despite the negatives, I’m already finding there’s a remarkable freedom in no longer chasing the hair color of youth. There’s relief in not having to factor in a Color Date when anticipating large social events. There’s liberation in being outside on a windy day and not worrying if untamed roots are showing. There’s a cool sense of rebellion of admitting to the world that as a woman you are, in fact, getting older. Because, you know, everybody is.

But I’ve also disliked being the center of attention with my new hair color. If my hair were longer and I hadn’t gone the pixie route, this change would have been much more gradual. Instead, since the most shocking part of my transition happened in only four months, there are still lots of friends and family who haven’t seen me and don’t even know I’ve made this change. So I’m reluctantly learning to brace myself for stares and fumbled comments and excitement and questions…in short, attention…when different gatherings occur. Any introvert knows social gatherings can be enough work; attention at social gatherings is downright agonizing.

And so at those gatherings, with that attention, I am also learning to accept the positive and bat away the negative. Early on, I found my confidence and my resolve about my “embracing my age” decision rising on the encouragement and falling on the silence (or unabashed criticisms) of other people. I sincerely hated that. I hated feeling so whimmed and flakey. I feel much more confident now, but I sense there is still more growth to be had…both on my head and in my spirit.

Taken today without a black and white setting.  I'm rather
digging it!

Calico no more

The past week has been filled with shock, excitement, doubt, acceptance, confusion, and reflection. Yes, we are once again talking about hair.

I got my second notable haircut of the Going Gray Adventure last week. Patti and I discussed all sorts of options about what next to do with my calico hair. Typically I wouldn’t have been sitting in her chair quite so soon. I’m hoping that I might be able to counter the chaos of my technicolor hair by having a controlled, more maintained hair style. So every four weeks it is. At least for now.

I told Patti I was pretty sure I didn’t want to do a super short pixie cut to hasten the adventure. I accidentally had one of those when I asked Rob to cut my hair. It was about 15 years ago and I was post-op enough after a back surgery to need a haircut but not post-op enough to be able to withstand the spinal torture of leaning back in the shampoo bowl and sitting for more than 15 minutes.

I was certain Rob would do a fine job, as my beloved roommate Zeke – a History major with no cosmetology education – had fabulously cut my hair numerous times in college.

However, as I emerged from Mr. Rob’s Coif and Cut looking like GI Jane, I immediately had newfound respect and admiration for Zeke’s innate clipper skills. I also discovered that my head is unattractively asymmetrical. I wore a baseball hat for three months.

So fearing a repeat of that memorable hair don’t, I told Patti she could do whatever she wanted with my hair except for a pixie cut.

Guess what I have?

I had no idea that dark patch was in the back.
It's also interesting that my natural color is
so much darker than my Truffle.

It’s not Patti’s fault. As she started scissoring away chunks of Garnier Truffle #50, we both got rather excited about the emerging silvers and whites. I told her to keep going and before I was really ready, I was staring at a version of myself I have never seen before. One week later, I’m still not very used to her.

Thankfully I don't have exceptionally
pointy ears.

Yep, no hiding it now!

Admittedly, the cut is better than Mr. Rob’s version 15 years ago. Something about training and licensing. But it’s still waaaay shorter and waaaaay grayer than I’m accustomed to seeing surrounding my face.

The wisps of Truffle left on the tips will probably be gone in 3 more weeks.
In other news, we look like we match now!  

I’ve taken my look out on tour. The day after I saw Patti, I got on a plane and spent almost a week surprising Rob’s family. To be honest, I was a bit nervous. Los Angeles is not a culture that heartily embraces women aging, gracefully or otherwise. And I always feel less primped and coiffed and pulled together when I’m surrounded by SoCal women who have a lot more knowledge and investment in appearance-type concerns.

I only caught a couple of stares from sun-kissed strangers. Who knows, maybe I just had some Double Double caught in my teeth and my hair wasn’t even noticed.

Gratefully, I got a number of very kind hair comments and supportive smiles from family and friends…after the shock wore off. My mother-in-law, bless her, even seemed disappointed towards the end of our visit when I said I plan to grow my hair out and not keep the pixie. With love, she told me I looked elfish and gamine (I had to Google it), referencing Audrey Hepburn. That was a benevolent stretch but still filled me with appreciation for her kind encouragement.

I also found myself feeling more attractive and feminine with my contacts instead of my glasses. Unfortunately, that also meant I had trouble reading menus and texts and hotel bills since I really need bifocals and it seemed ill advised to take my contacts out and put them on the top of my head while reading something up close. Today I’m back to glasses. Because, well, typing.

Having been home for a few days, I’m starting to get used to that look of wide-eyed, I-don’t-know-what-to-say, I’m-not-sure-I-like-it look on friends’ faces when they first see me. One of the kids in Youth Group last night expertly summed it up by exclaiming, “I didn’t expect it to be SO WHITE!”

I have moments when I’m totally digging the new look and feeling sassy and am totally embracing being my own penguin.

My parents bought me this print when I was in high school.
Its caption says "Dare to be Different."
I've tried my best to live up to it.

I love the excitement of this week-by-week evolution that at times has felt something like a caterpillar emerging into a butterfly.

But there are other moments when I am utterly mystified by the caught reflection in a window or a tablet screen. I see this person with short white hair and I don’t know who she is. But then I look at photos of myself from just a few months ago and all I see is synthetically dark brown hair that doesn’t seem to fit either.

I wasn’t bargaining for an identity crisis when I started this little adventure! But I’m starting to think that’s a foundational part of this experience…examining and defining who I really am on the doorstep of 50.

Embracing the gray underneath

Well, it’s been about 3.5 months since I boldly proclaimed that my days of coloring my hair were soon coming to an end (see Gray Matters post).

At the time I wasn’t sure exactly when I was going to ditch The Box. But once I said it aloud (or, rather, in writing), I found myself getting sort of excited by the idea of finding out what actual hair color lurks under my Garnier #50 Truffle helmet.

For a variety of reasons including tightwadiness (I still had two Truffle boxes from that sale several months ago) and vanity (our anniversary is in early December and I wanted to look good for our annual photo), I decided that my last dye job would be right before Thanksgiving. Specifically November 22, 2016 – two months ago today -- I did this for the very last time:

Yes, that is blue painters tape.  It works great for
keeping Truffle off your face.

I also threw away the old yellow terry cloth robe with the Truffle-stained collar that I have worn for years while waiting for the 30 minute timer to ding. Although my commitment to be done dying my hair was rather strong, I will admit I promised myself I could get a new Hair Coloring Robe at Goodwill if my resolve caved.

It’s been an intriguing few months, learning just how many brain cells I have been unwittingly dedicating to my hair color and chasing that gray root line.

I was first aware of my addiction when I received a bridal shower invitation for December 30. You know bridal showers? Where women get gussied up and pay extra attention to their make-up and get a manicure in preparation? Where women do their best to look their best for each other?

My first thought when I got the invitation was wondering, out of habit, where I would be in my hair color cycle and if I would need to plan a date with Truffle on the 29th. Then remembering I had broken up with Truffle, I panicked that I would be attending a bridal shower with who knows how many stray and unkempt gray hair strands screaming from my temples and part line.

In a moment of vanity and insecurity that surprised me, I briefly debated ditching the Going Gray experiment for the bridal shower and resuming in January. But I quickly realized if I did that, I would always be chasing the Right Time, waiting for those perfect 30-90 days in which I didn’t have to make any important public appearances. Like bridal showers or concerts or birthday parties or vacations or dentist appointments.

And so I resisted The Box. I attended the lovely bridal shower with gray hairs peeking through, desperately resisting the urge to explain in each conversation that I was not coloring my hair on purpose. Mind you, none of the conversations had anything to do with hair and I sensed absolutely no judgment or even recognition from the women there that my lack of color upkeep was an issue. But it sure surprised me how self-conscious I was about my hair. I didn’t like it.

That’s been the worst part of the past 60 days – feeling so dang self-conscious. With just enough gray showing that it was noticeable, but not enough that it was obvious that I was letting it grow on purpose, I felt like I looked lazy and tired. That maybe I had given up on my appearance and just didn’t care anymore. That I might as well be wearing my penguin pajama pants and llama t-shirt and orthotic Crocs, regardless if I was at Walmart or not.

I tried to pre-empt this angst by making my “going gray” intentions as public as possible. I rambled about it here, I announced it on Facebook, and I’ve mentioned it in any number of conversations with friends and family. I even told the kids in our Youth Group because, you know, teenagers care about hair, right? And that has helped ease the apprehension. Until a few days ago.

That’s when I got my second haircut of this grand adventure and when I got my first real peek at the silvers lurking under all this Truffle.

My hair stylist, Patti, is fantastic. She is 100% behind my decision to go gray and to do it cold turkey. She hasn’t tried to talk me out of it even though it could mean more money in her pocket if she did (highlights, lowlights, glazes, so many ways NOT to embrace my natural hair!). Judging from a Facebook group of women who are “Going Gray and Lovin’ It!” (I swear, there is a support group for everything), Patti is pretty unique in her support.

As Patti was clipping away a few days ago and oohing and ahhing, I was getting pretty excited about what she was unearthing. I had my glasses off and am pretty blind without them, so I was jazzed but unprepared for what greeted me in the mirror when I could finally see.

With silver sides and back and a Truffle top, the mishmash of colors was rather shocking. I just stared at myself in the mirror when I got to the car, determined not to cry. I felt like a calico cat and sort of wanted to just slink home with my tail between my legs even though I had planned to run some errands.

I was surprised by how insecure I suddenly was just because of my hair. Good grief, I’m staring 49 right between the eyes! I'm going to be brought down by hair? Really?

I gave myself a little pep talk. I know I am so much more than my hair. Unlike junior high – the last time I felt so annoyingly insecure about my appearance – I decided to embrace the weirdness and the discomfort and the self-consciousness and take my calico hair out for a public viewing.

And it was just fine.

Nobody cared about my hair at Kohl’s. Nobody cared about my hair at Jamba Juice. Nobody cared about my hair at Albertsons. The car wash attendant couldn’t have cared less about my hair. And the heavily primped greeters at Ulta did not direct me to the hair dye aisle as I feared they might. Exactly like junior high, the only person who was so acutely aware and judgmental of my appearance was me.

Feeling less slinky and more confident, I called out to Rob when I got home.

“My hair is a bit dramatic. Are you ready?”

When he opened his eyes as I stood in front of him, I searched his face for words he wasn’t yet speaking.

“It looks uniquely sophisticated. I like it. The cut AND the color. Both.”

Rob has trained me over the years that he will tell me the truth when I ask how something looks on me. If those pants make me look fat, believe you me he will tell me. As difficult as that can be at times, at other times…like this one…it is a huge gift to know that Rob is telling me his truth.

Feeling even more confident, I played with my new hair a bit, added the new lipstick I had bought just hours prior (retail therapy, anyone?), and posted this picture on the Going Gray Facebook page:

The page is an incredibly supportive, encouraging group of over 6,000 women all over the world. The common thread is we are all striving to embrace our natural hair color. The women share stories of wonderful support as well as terribly disheartening words from people in their lives who warn they are going to look old and tired if they stop coloring their hair. They provide tips on shampoo and make-up and glasses frames. And they share pictures of before, during, and after to take some of the scary mystery away. Scanning the photos for the past few months has shown me how utterly striking gray hair can be…even when it is growing out.

Within minutes of sharing my photo, a remarkable bath of warm words, kindness, compliments, and support was being poured over me. The reassurance, the love, the kindred friendship of women I do not even know was overwhelming and bolstering. The calico cat was suddenly feeling slinky in a whole new way.

So yesterday I walked around in public with confidence and even discovered that my silver hair now makes my black rain hat much more interesting.

I sort of wanted to find a flapper dress
to wear with the hat.  That never
occurred to me with Truffle hair.

I am also recognizing the importance of lipstick in making me feel pulled together while also brightening up my face a bit with its new silver frame.

Before "Wear on Wildberry" and after

Patti thinks my transition might be complete in just two more haircuts. This is incredibly fast, thanks to my hair growing quickly and my short style. Much to my surprise, now that I’m past that “does she know she needs to color her hair??” stage and have gotten past the shock, I’m actually really digging this weird palette of colors on my head. What had once been a bit of fear and trepidation about the hairy road ahead is now all excitement and anticipation.

Goodwill can keep its robes.

Gray matters

Around this time 16 years ago, I was getting myself psyched up for my first back surgery scheduled for a week before Christmas. At the time it was simply “my back surgery” because I didn’t fathom there being more than one.

I was very busy being busy, keeping myself distracted from the anxiety and fear. Work helped, a fabulous vacation across an ocean helped, and a harebrained idea knocking around inside my head helped.

In a staff meeting in November, I boldly announced to my coworkers that I was going to bleach my hair blond in honor of my surgery.

I figured being housebound for months would be a perfect time to do something dramatic with my appearance with plenty of time to change back to “normal” if it was an epic failure. Plus, more importantly, it gave me something different and more exciting to talk about than the impending fusion of several vertebrae in my lower back.

I also knew that if I finally shared my idea out loud, I would go through with it. No chickening out once I spoke it to the universe and my friends.

And so, the weekend before my surgery I spent several back-achingly painful hours in a salon chair unsuccessfully trying to become a platinum blond.

“You have very strong hair. This is the best I can do,” the colorist apologized as I gaped at the mirror.

When wet, my blond hair looked like a cross between Big Bird and the Heat Miser. When dry, it looked like this.

My surgeon didn't recognize me and my roots
were showing by the time I left the hospital a week later.
For months I looked like a skate rat.

(Urban Dictionary: "A skater that has nothing better to do than skateboard,
so he/she skateboards every day of the week, no matter the weather or
condition, out of sheer boredom or desire to go pro or get sponsored.")
 

Something instinctively told me I would look better with whiter hair than yellow hair. Clearly, yellow is not my best color. But I wonder if white is?

I’m seriously contemplating finding out.

I’ve been coloring my hair since my mid-20s. I started out just plucking out the grays but when that lead to cramping arms and hamster-nest collections of hair strands in the sink, I introduced myself to Miss Clairol. We were buddies for a long while until she decided to reformulate herself. I then found a new friend in this nice lady.

Although Truffle and I have had a monthly date for years, I’m starting to think I might be ready to consider ending our friendship.

For several years I have found myself fascinated by women who have younger faces and white or gray hair. I envy their boldness to ignore societal expectations. I am in awe of their sense of self and self-acceptance. I crave their freedom to not have to build in the ritual of plastic gloves and smelly chemicals and timers.

About 8 years ago, I read an unexpectedly liberating book called Going Gray by Anne Kreamer. I don’t recall many details about the book now, other than when looking at lots of before and after photos of women who took the gray plunge, they all seemed to share a striking and noticeable peace and serenity in their “after” photos.

It was that discovery that made me resolve to allow my now unknown natural hair color to reveal itself sooner rather than later.

I arbitrarily decided I would ditch the hair coloring by my 50th birthday. Easy to proclaim when one is 41. I’m now a few months shy of my 49th birthday. With the expected 4-6 months grow-out process, it’s about to get real if I am going to keep my promise to myself.

I’ve mentioned my Freedom to Be Me plans to a few people over the past year or so. Pretty much every man has been neutrally disinterested or very encouraging. Rob assures me he will find me beautiful whether I am a brunette or a silver vixen…just as long as I promise never to go blond again. Can’t say I blame him.

Another woman’s husband quietly shared that he wished his wife would consider going gray because he sees how much pressure she puts on herself to project an image that is increasingly not authentically her. What an unexpected insight!

Women have had mixed reactions. Some have told me I could totally rock gray or white hair. But most have warned me away from my idea; some even literally yelling “DON’T DO IT” before I can even finish my “I’m thinking of going gray for my 50th birthday” sentence. I honestly don’t know if they are rejecting the idea of me embracing my gray or of a woman in general doing so. I’m not sure which saddens me more.

And so, here and now, I am speaking my plans more publicly. Out loud. To the universe and my friends.

Partly to get my plans out of my head, partly to seek wisdom and suggestions from women who have blazed the silver trail ahead of me, and partly because about 5 weeks after I start this epic journey in several months, there will be no hiding or denying it.

So stay tuned! And if I wear hats for six months, you’ll know why.