Accepting The Grey

I’ve done it. I’ve accepted going grey at 47. And I am defiant.

It’s wasn’t easy. Imagine being told since young that you look like your parents can’t afford to dress you well; having tittering laughter and sneers at a relative’s wedding reception where you made the mistake of wearing your dress backwards (Though you were only eleven and your parents had no clue). Imagine being bullied and teased and talked to as your body blossomed and grew offensive to those who weren’t as precocious. Image has been a priority for me all these decades. And it didn’t go without a fight. Only, this time, I was victorious. Today I returned my last two unopened, as new hair colour for store credit, bought my cousin his housewarming gift, and was only out ~$1.50. Didn’t buy a single thing for myself. Not even a coffee.

Oh, image still matters–don’t get me wrong. It’s just that with the graduation to the past-my-prime-but-I’m-strong-and-I-know-what-I-want, mature woman, the transition will be awkward. Yet, the reward will be great.

Finally, I’m freed from the shackles of trying to appear young. Not from being beautiful, but from a 40-something year old trying to pass off as a 30-something. Awkward. And I didn’t realize until now that the bridge to that place of truth was courage with acceptance.

This is how I look now with the change in hair status:

Notice the hair loss. That was all from colouring my hair since 1997! Twenty years took it’s toll. Going grey was such a no-brainer that even the hair colour company I called told me to just “go grey”!

Well. It’s over. My youth is over. I have to make way for the next generation in my circle. Or in any circle. The older women in our city are of two camps: pretending it never happened, or going grey with a great deal of spite. There is no class discrimination in this. We women are all the same: we age ungracefully. Whether we have a business to run, or have a houseful of litter boxes for our thirteen cats, nobody wants to be old.

I suspect there’s something comparable in the male experience too, only society tells them to suck it up and be graceful. They still look ugly. But with a wad of cash bulging, no prostitute is going to complain much. Not for a 15 minute trick. Wham! Bam! Pay up, man!

I guess that’s it then, no moaning, no whining, no regrets. It’s still going to be an emotional process, but I’m more in touch with reality than I’ve ever been. ~V

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