Not a love letter to my greying hair

Not yet

I’m fine with going grey, I say, as I pluck the fifth one out of my head this week.

My mother started greying at 21, my sisters and I seem to be heading down a similar path. And while I tell myself I’m cool with it all, I can’t help side-eye that grey streak climbing up my left-part every day.

I know certain nutritious deficiencies, stress and the like all contribute to greys. But I am very sure what we’re dealing with here is a genetic cocktail that’s 90% decided and I can’t fight against. What’s actually happening with grey hairs? I ask the internet. The hair is losing its melanin. Does that mean… I type into to the ether. Does that my body is already shutting up shop?

It sounds extreme, I know, but really, can you blame me? Once the hair goes grey there’s to jump starting colour again, no turning the ship around. And like, while I do think I may rep the silver hair and I cling deeply to characters such as witch-queen Manon Blackbeak to make it ok, its the in-between, the half-grey / half- brown phase that I’ll probably be in for the next five years, that is freaking me out.

Don’t get me wrong, I literally do not notice other people’s greys. Like, at all. And if I do, I like it. On ANYONE ELSE but me. I thought my boyfriend was nuts for the way he used to pluck them out of his chin when it only gave him that silver fox vibe. And before you go and tell me it’s a double standard, I’ve seen women my age rocking their streaks of grey and they kill it. It’s not about anyone else, it’s not about society, it’s about me. And only me. Personally I find myself quite offended aging is happening to me. Theoretically, we age, and I get it, and I thought when my time came I would greet it serenely like a wise woman of the forest. But… at 31? Maybe it’s because I feel myself getting ‘older’ in so many other aspects.

I was messaging a friend in another country the other night. Hugo had taken Jago for the night, it was a Saturday night, I had book in had and… zero plans. Zero messages. My big event was my dark chocolate waiting for me in the fridge. But not too much because the caffeine would keep me awake. She was in the same boat, one country away. Did we ‘heal’ too hard? She joked she didn’t even have a toxic guy to text anymore even if she wanted to. But my interests, the things that light me up have become so, safe in a way. Fantasy books. Mountain bike. Child. Mum friends. Boyfriend. I stopped drinking a year ago so don’t even have the buzz of a wine at the end of the day. It’s not that I’m rebelling against being perceived as boring, nor do I feel bored. Actually, there’s something about the groundedness of it all that I find so enriching. Maybe I’m just so overstimulated by my five year old I need to turn down the volume on everything else to stay on an even keel. Years ago I did an interview with snowboarder Taylor Godber where she pretty much said, snowboarding helped her unlock her wild in a way partying never did. And maybe that’s why mountain biking has changed my capacity or craving for chaos. Because while I’m not sending it off the jumps (yet) I do unleash a part of myself when I get on that bike and in the mountains. A primal, feral, strong woman against the elements. That back in town, nestled into my apartment, a cuppa and a fantasy book on a Saturday sounds bloody delightful. A friend invited me on a girl surf trip to Nova Scotia in November. I’m considering it. Maybe also because in my work world, we’re switching App platforms, writing a memoir and planning a documentary, that the craving for wild isn’t there. It’s plenty wild around here, guys. Okay. OKAY?

But the greying. It’s strange. In my head, so often 31 still feels like ‘the twenties’ (until you get around people in their early twenties and go ‘oh, ok, I’m definitely in my thirties.’) And then someone had to ruin my day by saying ‘you know when you turn an age, you’re COMPLETING that age.’ So when I turn 32 in November, I’m completing 32 years. I’m not beginning 32 years. Anyway. Am I afraid of dying? Not essentially. Am I afraid to slow down, or like my body is giving up on me? I feel fitter than I’ve ever felt. Maybe it’s just the way the greying starts, a little one here, a little one there, until suddenly it’s peppered all over my head and people are going ‘oh, you’re only 31.’ How it starts without my permission. Truly, the frown lines on my head don’t take up as much headspace in my head as the greys. Why? ‘Just dye your hair’ one might say. See, I tried that. A year and a half ago. And then at the end of it all I had was hair 4 shades darker, and the greys stuck out MORE. No pigment attached to any of the greys. Not a one. I’m reluctant to dance with the devil again now the greys have multiplied so much since that fateful day.

Now why am I pulling you into this spiral with me? Why? Because I could do the ‘love letter to my greys’ and I could make it sound convincing but truly I’m not there yet.

And in my youth when I actually did wild things I used to think insecurities could be solved with affirmations on a mirror. Just yell at yourself enough that you love *part that fuels insecurity* and everything will be hunky-dory. Again, I am sorely reminded how in-my-twenties I am not. Now I am learning there can be a few steps between feeling bad about something, and then feeling good about it, eventually. There’s accepting that it feels strange. Then, hopefully, there’s neutrality. After that, the love, maybe. And knowing myself I’m sure I will love those greys at some point.

Today, I still feel a little weird about it, and that’s okay. Maybe you’re feeling a little strange about some age related thing that’s happening and maybe we don’t have to accept it straight away, and gracefully flow through our transitions in life like graceful sea fairies all the way through life. Maybe they freak us out for a moment, the lines, the wrinkles, the whatever- and we have to sit with it and look at ourselves in the mirror day after day and grow to re-know the person we are becoming.

I will say though, any sign of aging is a sign I’m still alive. And that’s pretty dope too, so. While I might not dance around with my witch streaks just yet, I will be quite grateful for that.