I’m not proud of it, but the truth is that my relationship with permanent hair color outlasted many other relationships in my life. And I was very loyal to it.
I started experimenting with my naturally medium brown locks in high school. I’d go from black to auburn to brown, and back again. But by the time I hit my 30s, things got more serious. I found myself scrambling to cover up the scattered silver strands that my friends called my “tinsel.”
I’m not a fan of tinsel on Christmas trees and I was even less thrilled about having it on my head. I wasn’t ready to accept the changes happening to my body due to aging. With an arsenal of little plastic bottles and a mountain of disposable gloves, I was ready to fight to hold on to what I perceived to be my youth and vitality.
For the next two decades, I hid my emerging white roots like a dark secret, resorting to hats and headscarves on those rare occasions when I was unable to visit a salon or a drugstore hair color aisle. I used temporary sprays, powders and pastes that left my hair feeling as stiff as a discarded bird nest. I longed to be free from my beauty product bondage. But I was stuck.
What was I so afraid of?
Now in my early 50s, I look back and see that I was terrified of what other people would think of me if I let my true color show. How would society label me? Was I just one missed salon appointment away from becoming an “old lady”?
Thanks to genetics, I always had a reasonably youthful appearance and could get away with passing for a decade younger than my age. I didn’t mind revealing my real age because I could rely on getting those predictable compliments like, “You don’t look a day over 40.”
Part of me was proud of my years, my achievements, my wisdom and the more self-assured person I’d become. I’d raised a daughter, conquered insecurity, completed two master's degrees and even spent a year learning Brazilian jujitsu. I knew these were things that only life experience and maturity could have afforded me.
I went all age-positive and celebrated my 50th birthday by writing an article for Thrive Global called “I’m Turning 50, and I Want to Tell Everyone.”
But letting my hair go white was another story. I refused to do it — until something strange happened.
I was on COVID-19 lockdown at home, all by myself. I brewed some cinnamon apple tea, popped a bowl of popcorn and sat down to watch The Lord of The Rings: The Two Towers.
There’s a scene in the movie where the wizard Gandalf the Grey appears in the forest in a shroud of blinding light. He dramatically reveals himself as Gandalf the White, now wearing snow-colored robes with shocking white hair.
After he bravely defeated and killed the menacing, fire-breathing creature called the Balrog, Gandalf experienced a rite of passage. He was reborn, transformed into a more powerful white wizard. In fact, he’d moved up the hierarchy of wizards, from grey to white. Gandalf was sporting all white hair and at his full power.
I decided right then. I was going to stop being afraid. Instead of using Dark Brown Number 47, I was going to have my own natural hair color. If I had to give it a name, I’d call it “White as Truth.”
There would be no more hiding, no more spraying, powdering and dyeing. There would be no more denying who I really am.
If I allowed myself to show up in the world as bravely and valiantly as Gandalf did, I would defeat the menacing creature that is my fear and shame about my age. And I too could emerge victoriously, more powerful, more inspired and more myself than I have ever been.
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