Going Gray

Most every woman sallies forth to fight this battle sooner or later.  In my case, the battle found me.

My first gray hair appeared when I was about fifteen.  By seventeen I had a halo of gray roots along my hairline.  Though I might have dismissed the first hair as stress, it was clear that I had inherited the gene.  You see, all through my childhood I assumed my mom's mom was a natural blond.  It wasn't until I was in my late teens that I stumbled upon a highschool portrait of my grandma and realized that, at my age, she had been a dark brunette -- like me.  She'd dyed her hair for most of her life.  So had my mom.  And now I had joined the ranks of the prematurely silvered.

So what's the dilemma?  Loads of people dye their hair just for fun -- to spruce up their look, see if blonds have more fun, or shock their elders.  I just wasn't one of them. 

I starred in a childhood anecdote where I told my mom that when I got old, I was going to let my hair be gray.  I thought ladies with gray hair looked wise and distinguished.  They shouldn't be embarrassed by their gray hair; it showed they'd lived and learned things and could officially give important advice on how not to be an idiot.  I looked forward to being one of those ladies.

But I wasn't one of those ladies yet.  I was seventeen, neither wise nor distinguished, struggling to bend Algebra to my will, and in no position to tell anyone how to avoid the pratfalls of idiocy.  It would be like... false advertising, or something.  Plus, my dark hair was one of the few things I liked about my teen-aged appearance, and I wasn't ready to give it up.

Which is how I found myself in the Health and Beauty department of Walmart, scowling suspiciously down at a box of Clairol 'Dark Golden Brown'.  I doggedly hunted through the colors, comparing the swatches with the ends of my hair, searching for a perfect match.  With my mom's help, we managed to cover the gray without changing my natural hair color at all.  It was the closest I could get to sticking to my guns.

 

{photo credit: google.com}

 

Of course, it's funny I should write about this now.  I'm currently in possession of a mottled, tortoise-shell head, thanks to my failure to properly read the label on a box of root touch-up.  You'd have thought you were witnessing 'Chernobyl: the Sequel' by my reaction, but it wasn't that bad.  Mostly.  My more adventurous sister even convinced me to try something with some red in it as my cover-up option.  It's quirky, but I like it!

My ultimate resolve remains unchanged, but now there's a component of complexity to it.  Someday I will let my hair alone.  I'll embrace the gray.  But when?  It's not going to be a matter of accepting the inevitable now; I'm going to have to make the decision to let it come, and how can I possibly decide?  When is a good age?  47?  55?  62½?

When is 'wise enough'?

What do you think?