I was 26 when I discovered my first gray hair. Well, who really found out was my ex-husband, on the first day of our Honeymoon. We were sitting in the shade, by the pool, when he looked at me in astonishment and with the immature sensitivity of a young man said: Nooossaaaa, look at the size of that white thread!. I was so shocked that I asked him to pull it out right away.
After that first strand, the white hair took a few years to reappear. I don\’t know if it\’s because they didn\’t feel welcome when they first appeared or because, like me, they were stuck in the time of my marriage.
I was already approaching 30 when my hairdresser aunt who cut the ends of my rebellious locks told me that behind my head and under my naturally dark strands, some white hairs were already settling down. I was uncomfortable and speechless for a few seconds, then I said that if they were just there hidden like that it would be fine, because I had no way of seeing them and pulling them out. So they did.
I don\’t remember seeing a thread until I got to Boston. Of course, my beautiful, free, and amazing life here wouldn\’t leave my Becoming Better for Myself to-do list, nor would my hair.
Here, not only did I discover that my hair was amenable to the use of a dryer, as long as it was at a low speed and not too high a temperature, but I also started to have x-ray vision to identify newborn gray hairs and pull them out with tweezers. Just as I felt free to be whoever I wanted, following all my energy and motivation for freedom, so did my gray hairs.
It felt like magic. Every day I woke up and found a new one. I kept telling people who couldn\’t see them that the reason was because I plucked them. I would resist as much as I could
to that inappropriate occupation, since white people stand out so much among dark ones.
It was then that something happened. A few days after my Thanksgiving post on gratitude to my inner child, I was fixing my hair looking at it in an elevator mirror when I noticed a very white and shiny strand of hair under my bangs on the right side of my head. It was already elongated, having withstood my intense search and seizure efforts. Probably he hid himself among the blacks until he became stronger and more visible in such a shining way that it became impossible to remain hidden. He was so beautiful. Brillant. Brighter than the white lights made in hairdressing salons. Curious, I started moving the locks in a more meticulous way, from bottom to top, from back to front, in a way that I had never done before in my routine searches. Impressed, I began to find several. All wonderfully beautiful. They weren\’t half black half white or yellowish white like one or the other he\’d encountered when they first started showing up. They were naturally colored a strong silvery white.
Even though I had to admit the excellent work they did while growing up quietly, the color accent and the fear that I might look older by letting them take over the territory made me, at first, look for alternatives to cover them. I wasn\’t going to pluck them anymore, their insistence on growing in my head was admirable to say the least.
I went for a pink toner. I didn\’t want a permanent dye as I had already learned how sensitive my fine black hair is to traditional dyes. In fact, my blacks are really sensitive to everything, poor people, even the wind. They certainly have someone to pull.
I bought and applied the toner, hoping that if I had to have strands of different colors on my head it would at least be a cheerful color. But my expectations, as most times, were not met. My whites are so strong and resistant that it was as if they had made a shield against the toner when applying it. They kept their color and shine intact like true Spartans in yet another battle against a Persian queen wanting to keep her young status.
After the failed attempt, the queen here turned to the lord of knowledge of the 21st century, the famous God Google, with the intention of finding a toner that covered white hair. But, like every God who doesn\’t give you what you ask for, but what you need, Google ended up showing me blogs and websites with reports of women who assumed their gray hairs at a young age. With each report I read and each photo I saw, I was enchanted, admired by the self-esteem and unique beauty of those women, each with a different age.
I thought about how I, a feminist, constantly in search of self-knowledge and strengthening self-love, could have spent so much time pulling out my beautiful and special strands of white hair. I questioned my position in this dictatorship of beauty imposed on women. Even more, even the existing gender inequality in the way of looking at white hair. After all, why is it OK and even charming for a man to grow gray hairs and a woman considered careless and old if he does?
No, it\’s not ok at all.
I remembered my mother. Of course, my unpretentious inspirational muse who presents herself as an example of life for me all the time. I thought about how much time she wasted coloring her hair to suit this dictatorship and how freeing it was when she stopped doing it. She was the first woman I knew who took on white people beautifully and proudly. And it\’s curious for me to observe that the whiter she gets on that pretty little head of hers, the prettier and more exuberant she gets
It\’s been four months since I\’ve pulled out a single hair. And maybe because I gave my approval for them to settle down for good, my shiny Spartans are becoming more and more visible on top of my head lol. I\’m having fun with their boldness and admiring their light more every day.
It is said that it is possible to acquire gray hairs depending on your emotional state. If so, so be it. May my white-silver be a proud representation of all the difficult times I\’ve gone through and will still go through in this beautiful and amazing life of mine. Let it be long, so that I can shelter the true white hair of a wise and happy witch. While I don\’t get there, I\’m here mirroring myself in the photo of the witch I love and admire most in this world: mom.