10 Reasons I Decided To Go Gray at 40
I discovered my first gray hair as a teenager. I plucked it.
They continued to pop up with regularity all through college, wiry and stark against my black hair. I plucked those too.
By 23, I was covering the grays with semi-permanent color every 6–8 weeks.
By 26, I’d moved on to permanent color on the roots, every 3–4 weeks.
By 40, I was going in every 2 weeks. Yes, two. My hair grows fast, and the combination of a “black” base and now entirely white roots meant that there was no forgiveness in the grow-out the way that blondes or those with highlights are afforded. It was a stark, Cruella DeVille kind of look.
And even as I laughed it off “my lot in life,” a little part of me started to wonder:
“Is this really what I want to be spending my precious life? Spending an hour+ sitting in a salon chair twice a month … indefinitely?”
Eventually, I decided no—not even a tiny bit.
Below are 10 musings led to August 12, 2024 (my silverversary!) being the last day I put dye on my hair.
Growing old is a damned privilege that many people don’t get to experience. Why was I acting ashamed of aging? Why was I trying this blessing to have made it another day/month/year?
I’d rather be actually be interesting than try to look young. I want to be that woman where people to look at me and think, “She like she’s lived,” not, “Wow, she looks young for her age!” Or worse, “She’s had work done…” I took all that time and money and mental focus that had been spent on worrying about looking young, and put it towards books and learning and hobbies.
I started to ask myself when would be the right age to stop dyeing my hair, and realized there was magical acceptable age when it’s all of a sudden be okay and easy to transition from black to white. What exactly was my plan to stop dying? 50? 60? 70? 80? Never? My mom is in her 70s, still coloring her hair. In fact, almost every woman I know, from 35 to 85 is still dyeing her hair. If I wait for the “acceptable” age, I might be waiting forever.
Which made me realize I really don’t want to spend the next 40+ years, if I’m blessed with a long life, going every 2–3 weeks to sit in a chair for over an hour, to have chemicals glopped onto my scalp, all to pretend my hair is a color it hasn’t been since I was 20.
A younger-than-me friend began getting Botox, and her once-interesting face became instantly generic. It made me question if my own pursuit of appearing youthful was making me equally generic (it was).
Why was I trying to cling to what I looked like at 20, when I’m infinitely happier at 40? Why not just … look 40? Don’t get me wrong, I love Jennifer Aniston in her ageless glory, but saucy Betty White sure seemed to be having a lot fun as a white-haired badass, and the silver-haired Jamie Lee Curtis is completely captivating.
When I suggested the idea of going gray to my hair-dresser, she said, “Eh, I think it would really age you,” and my first thought was, “And?” Who wrote the rule that age = worse? (Update: though I no longer go in for color, we keep in touch, and she’s since come around and loves the silver on me, or at least claims to!)
Hilarie Burton, as well as good friend Laura did it first. Laura told me that letting natural gray out was favorite thing about herself. Hilarie’s thoughts on the topic sold me on it being both cool, striking, and most importantly, freeing. In particular, this spoke to me: “this idea that you can level up and get to the place where you’re the salty one in the room was exciting to me.”
Countless men in my life, including my dad, husband, father-in-law, and several male friends and mentors started going gray in their 20s/30s. Not a single one of them is in the salon every 3 weeks putting dye on their scalp to hide the grays. They’re all silver foxes, doing cool shit. I want to be a part of that DGAF club, not the one with a standing appointment to “get her roots done.”
I realized I couldn’t remember ever consciously make the decision on whether or not to cover my gray hairs. It felt like the decision was made for me. Rationally, I know I was the one that made the first “pluck.” I was the one who called the salon for that first dye job. But when I looked myself in the mirror and asked, “Why are you dyeing your hair?” the only thing I could think of was, “Because that’s what women do.”
But what if we didn’t.
