Grey
I noticed my first grey hair in high school. Just one. My friends and I laughed about it. In my mid-twenties, my colourist told me my hair was twenty-five percent grey, and now, nearly a decade later, my head would be almost entirely grey if it wasn’t for my monthly home root touch-up.
Truthfully, there isn’t much I like about my hair. When I was in elementary school, I remember my hair being referred to as dirty blonde. I hated that description. It was as if it had something to do with my hygiene. My hair has always been thin. In my teens, I coveted my friend’ thick ponytails and braids. Perhaps as a form of rebellion, I shaved my head and then kept it short for a number of years. Before I moved to the Yukon, my hair started falling out. I’d wake up to a pillow covered in hair or find dozens of strands cover in my hands after shampooing. Stress, most likely. These days, my hair frustrations lie mostly in my greys. They require constant maintenance, and our distance from the hairdresser means that I take matters into my own hands. The results are typically subpar.
Just a few weeks after colouring, my silvery roots are visible. When I pull my hair back, it’s a reminder that very few strands are still brown. But I don’t embrace it; instead, I continue to colour it, like clockwork, every month. Lately I’ve been wondering why. If it’s that I prefer it this way, or if I do it because of deeply engrained beliefs around aging and beauty.
The first time I dyed my hair I was a teen. I wanted blonde hair, like bleached blonde-blonde. Easy, I thought. I bought a boxed dye and set out on what I hoped would be an incredible transformation in my bathroom. It was a transformation alright, but it was far from incredible. My hair turned orange. My mum’s friend came to the rescue and helped me remedy the disaster I’d made. The result was brown hair with subtle highlights. It was more tasteful, but my yearning for hair other than my own was far from over. Thus began a life of consistent hair colouring.
I’d like to think that initially my hair dying was an attempt at self-expression. I think more likely it was a desire to fit into some sort of beauty standard. And now? Now that my hair is almost entirely grey, what’s at the root of my regular colouring? Am I colouring it because I want to or because the world has taught me that youth is beauty?
I’ve encountered many women who have embraced their greys. The greys are striking and beautiful and I admire their decision. And still, I can’t imagine myself grey, yet. In some ways I feel I’m at a crossroads. I can see a version of myself, years from now, with a silver bob and a sense of ease. But right now, that Hilary still feels far off. The struggle I have is that I know I’m supposed to love myself as I am. And I feel guilt that I’m not able to love my greys.
We’ve grown up in a world where the prevailing messaging about women’s worth is tied to their ability to stay frozen in time, to appear effortlessly young and effortlessly smooth. Grey hair, and aging more broadly, is framed as ‘letting go’ and signals decline. And at the same time, we’re told that grey hair on men tells a different story. Men with grey are ‘distinguished’ or ‘seasoned’, whereas descriptions of women are laced with euphemisms, like, ‘She’s still beautiful despite the grey.’
In a way, I can reason with myself when it comes to my habitual root touch ups. I enjoy dying my hair, I tell myself. I love the way my hair looks when it’s freshly coloured. Aren’t we supposed to do what makes us feel best? What makes us feel most confident? And at the same time, what lingers in the back of my mind is the profound statement that aging is a privilege.
When I was first diagnosed with a myeloproliferative neoplasm in 2021, I thought death was imminent. Those worries were abated when I learned the condition, though chronic, could be managed. And when the condition progressed to myelofibrosis in 2024, again, thoughts of death plagued my mind. When confronted with my mortality, I realised all I wanted was to experience old age and to live life. I was reminded that we don’t all get to grow old.
The privilege of aging is not lost on me, or so I think. So why is it that I cling to the beauty ideals that are associated with youth? Is it because of cultural pressures. Is it personal—pressures I place on myself? Is it habitual, or fear, or vanity? Or is it a little bit of all of those things? The truth is, I don’t really know. But I suppose that what I am coming to realize when I colour my hair every month is that I am holding tight to two conflicting truths: aging is a privilege, and I am still learning how to experience that fully. I suppose it’s humbling to want both time and timelessness. To hope to experience old age, while still clinging to the remnants of youth.
I don’t know when I’ll stop colouring my hair, but I suspect that I’ll feel called to go grey at some point. In the meantime, I can acknowledge that I am reckoning with my own impermanence. And maybe that’s just part of what it means to grow older. Maybe.
P.S. thank you to those of you who provided your thoughts about going grey. I read every message and feel grateful for your vulnerability <3