grey wolf, howling, grey hair, fur, grief

Grey hair, sometimes care

I started going really quite grey at 24. Hell, I was so blonde and 24 that it didn’t matter. It was kind of sexy and knowing, I thought then. When I was 24. Now I feel like I am wearing a placard on my head shouting, “OLD OLD OLD.” Grey roots are different from great waterfalls of silver hair. Grey roots make women look and feel unhinged. As though our armour is sliding off, crown first. And every six-week hairdresser cycle (eight if I am time-poor/actually poor) I go through the same stages.

  • DENIAL: The whipping out of a roots touch up brush, the looking at myself from every angle and trying new ways to comb over the evils. Because there is nothing to see here.
  • ANGER: Now that my age is mapping itself out on my face, with the weird growths and nodules and WTFs, the grey roots seem so much worse. I am furious with them for signposting what is happening. It’s rude. The grey undermines me.
  • BARGAINING: Well, maybe I can wait a bit longer to see my hairdresser. It’s elegant right? Maybe this time I will just let it all go grey completely. Maybe I can grow my hair really long and…
  • DEPRESSION: It is so untidy. I am so untidy. So un-put-together. It’s such a hassle, an expense, like a car needing an MOT or a cracked phone screen. I hate myself. I always have and I always will…
  • ACCEPTANCE: Comes in the form of an email to my hairdresser. “Can you fit me in? I am sorry I left it so long. HELP!!!!”

Yes these are the same stages as grief. Because the greys are like grief. Every one is a little loss. Of identity. Of time. Of my mind. That’s on a bad day. On a good day I couldn’t care less. On a good day maybe they are sexy and knowing all over again…

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