By the time I hit 50, I was at war with my silver hair.
What once felt like a blessing — thick, fast-growing strands — had become a relentless reminder of time’s passage. I’d walk out of the salon feeling “fresh” (code for hiding the grey) only to watch silver roots break through within weeks.
It was exhausting. Expensive. A never-ending loop.
Then lockdown hit.
And for the first time in decades, I stopped. I asked myself: Why am I doing this?
Who am I trying to be?
You’d think it would be easy to walk away — to stop pouring money, time, and toxic chemicals onto my scalp just to maintain an illusion. But it wasn’t.
This was no small rebellion.
In my Lebanese whānau, women dye their hair deep brown or black well into their eighties, even nineties. At a recent funeral, standing at the podium, I scanned the room: not a single silver-haired woman in sight.
And it’s not just family. Society whispers that grey equals invisible, irrelevant, undesirable. I’ve heard friends say they’d rather die than go grey. We’ve been taught that nothing is less powerful, less worthy, less wanted than an old crone.
But I had to ask myself: Was I really willing to keep dousing myself in chemicals just to uphold this story?
Was I ready to stand in my truth?
Thankfully, my husband loved the change. As much as I’m here to smash the patriarchy, I’ll admit: his support softened the transition.
The first year was rough — a patchwork of silver, faded blonde, dark regrowth. But over time, my brilliant hairdresser helped me shape it into something new: a sleek, unapologetic silver bob.
And something deeper began to shift.
At 55, I know I’m still on the younger side for this path. I look for women my age embracing their silver — we’re growing, but we’re still few. Yet I sense something rising.
Just as we’re waking up to the destruction of the natural world — just as we’re fighting to save the forests, the waters, the bees — maybe, just maybe, we’re learning to honour the wild and natural within ourselves.
We are nature. We are cycles. We are birth, bloom, decay, renewal.
Why should we erase the signs of our seasons?
My sister and cousin have now joined me, letting their silver shine. They look radiant. My mum, a luminous Scottish Pākehā who married into my dad’s huge Lebanese family, dyed her hair until months before she passed. When chemo took her hair, she handed clippers to my brother and let it go. She shone, free of dye, free of pretence. We all wondered why she hadn’t embraced it sooner.
I like to believe she’s smiling on me now, glad I’ve stopped hiding, glad I’ve chosen to stand in the truth of my own seasons.
Sure, some days I feel invisible, even dismissed. But most days, I feel strong, powerful, grounded — like a woman finally in rhythm with herself, and with the earth.
Because here’s the truth: capitalist culture needs us to feel unworthy. It survives by convincing us we need endless products, treatments, fixes — to stay desirable, to stay relevant, to stay “enough.”
But aging is not a flaw. It’s a gift. A cycle. A rite of passage.
I no longer seek the attention I once did. I no longer need to prove I am worthy in the same way.
The other day, at lunch, an older friend told me I was courageous for embracing silver.
“I just want to be presentable,” she said.
“I think I’m presentable just the way I am,” I replied.
And for once, I didn’t just say it.
I believed it.
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