I’ve tried to ignore it.
I’ve tried to get rid of it.
But alas, I am now forced to admit the truth.
I have grey hair!
A couple of years ago I spied a silvery strand when I was doing my hair for a wedding. After surreptitiously looking around to make sure no one was watching, I pulled it out. Surely, I thought to myself, one grey hair doesn’t actually count. It’s not like I’m going grey or anything as dreadful as that.
Since then, I have seen a couple now and then, and they have met the same fate.
But the other day – coincidentally just after turning 35 – I pulled my hair back in a “half-up, half-down” style. Shock, horror – there they were! A glimmering patch of white gold!
There were too many to pull out and equally too many to ignore. I quickly changed hairstyles and went to work, rather depressed.
Is it true that I am really in my mid-thirties and have grey hair? I still feel the same way I did on the day I turned 19. Well – almost – I don’t think I am as annoying as I was in my late teens. But you know what I mean – it doesn’t seem possible that 16 years has elapsed since then.
I feel like I have relinquished other parts of my body to age – like my poor stomach, which bears the scars that come with having had three children. And my joints – they actually creaked the other day when I bent down to pick up an errant toy off the ground. But my hair – surely that’s a bridge too far?
In a culture that worships youth, the signs of age can be somewhat daunting. But I think that even worse than ending up looking old, is ending up looking like you got old and tried not to. One of the things I admire so much about Audrey Hepburn is that she grew old with grace and dignity – no surgery or botox or photshopping.
That said, I’m not prepared to entirely embrace the grey right yet. I can see a visit to the hairdressers on the cards…