Lessons, Big and Small, From Growing Out My Gray

If the hair styles of your youth leaned heavily on string barrettes, first-generation scrunchies and headbands with venomous teeth, you probably have some gray hair by now. Join the club. I noticed my first white strand in my 20s, then dyed my hair dark brown, on an ever-tightening schedule, for a quarter of a century. Six months ago, I realized I was like a man with a comb over — as in, I wasn’t fooling anyone — so I quit cold turkey.

Actually it wasn’t quite so easy-breezy. I waffled and agonized and bored everyone in my orbit with machinations befitting an astronaut preparing for a moon landing.

I knew the upsides of coloring my hair. I knew the perks of leaving it alone. What I could not wrap my head around was the growing-out process. Was I really supposed to walk around looking like a snow-capped mountain for two years?

Thankfully, there are hundreds of Instagram accounts dedicated to the graying of women who appear to be much more capable with French braids and filters than I am. I appreciated the “inspo” (is this still a thing?) but wanted to know what was going on inside the heads of these women. Here’s what’s happening inside mine.

I haven’t been this self-conscious since I got braces in sixth grade.
I haven’t felt this liberated since I got my driver’s license.
Hair grows very, very slowly.
Silver strands tend to be coarse and unruly and they have a habit of sprouting straight up. I’m cultivating a new kind of plant, more wisteria than philodendron.
The money I save on color has been reinvested in headbands, hats, leave-in conditioner, blue shampoo and a keratin treatment administered by a stylist whose grandmother happens to be transitioning to gray. (She doesn’t want the upkeep when she moves into assisted living.)
The time I save has been sucked into a cosmic vortex where it’s probably sunning itself alongside all my lost hair elastics.
Sitting in a salon during the Saturday morning rush was my version of hanging out in a locker room before the big game. I miss it.
I’m surprised how many people ask what my husband thinks of my hair. Nobody asks what I think of his, which is salt and pepper and quite distinguished.
My daughters are benevolently supportive, but they drag out the last syllable of their compliments in a way that makes me suspicious: “You look prettyyyyyy!” and “The gray is amazingggg!” I doubt they’d pass a polygraph.
My son says I look like Paulie Walnuts.
My mother, who never colored her hair and has always been on her high horse about it, squints at my roots and says, “Are you sure about this?” This was confusing until I realized her reaction is akin to the one I had when my older daughter showed me the stylish bag she bought for her first office job. All I could think was, “What happened to your butterfly lunch box?”

A few friends say, “Wow! You’re really doing it!” Translation: Not a fan, but too polite to say so.
Even worse: when eyes stray to my hairline and no comment is forthcoming.
Everyone has a neighbor who just went gray and looks stunning.
Should I go blonde? Wear a wig? Shellac new growth with root touch-up spray? (No, because I don’t want to ruin my hats or risk Rudy Giuliani rivulets in the rain.)
Bald men are the best. They get it.
My Technicolor clothes feel like they belong to the younger sister I never had. I adore her, but I don’t want to borrow her Kelly-green parrot dress or her hot pink polka dot sweater. I already have a bright spot on top of my head.
I’m nice to my two inches of white hair. Instead of blasting it with heat and trampling it with a flat iron, I gently pat my head with products called “Smooth Infusion” and “Dream Coat.”
Two months in, I consider sending a departmentwide email, outlining my long-term coiffure strategy for my colleagues. When I mention this to my boss, she says, “Oh Liz. I don’t think that will be necessary.”
Four months in, I catch a glimpse of myself in a three-way mirror and wonder, Who’s that lady in the white satin yarmulke? Then I buy my son the television of his dreams because the electronics department has fewer reflective surfaces and I had such a lump in my throat earlier in the day when I watched him unload mugs in the kitchen of his new apartment.
Six months in, I go to a friend’s birthday party. The next morning, our host texts a group selfie along with articles we discussed, an apology for being so negative about the Menendez brothers and a brief reflection on how lucky we are to have known each other for almost 20 years. I resist the urge to zoom in on my hair.
My eyebrows suddenly play a leading role on the stage of my face. Tempted as I am to resent the roommate who introduced me to waxing in the ’90s, I remind myself that she was an early spokeswoman for well-fitting bras.
I buy eyebrow gel, pencil and growth serum. Now I look like Eugene Levy.
“Did you think about growing it out during the pandemic?”
“I wasn’t ready.”
“Have you thought about cutting it short?”
“No.”

“Have you thought about lowlights?
“No.” (Because I don’t really understand what they are.)
“Have you thought about having the brown part stripped and dyed to match your gray?”
“Yes. But this process is expensive, time-consuming and risky if you’re in the hands of a novice. The guy who popularized it is in L.A. and has a six-month waiting list.”
“Can’t you get it for free if you’re going to write about it?”
“No.”
You know how Jeep owners flash a little hand gesture when they drive past each other? That’s how I feel when I spot white-haired strangers on the street. Some will smile as if to say, “I see you.” Others will telegraph, “Talk to me when you have a full head.”
I used to complain about being invisible. Now, two days after check in, the woman at hotel reception asks how I’m enjoying my room on a high floor as far from the elevator as possible. When I say, “I can’t believe you remem—,” she pats her hairline.
Usually I text people before I see them: “Just so you know, my hair looks bizarre.” One day I forget and a faraway friend emerges from baggage claim with her own fresh growth of gray. We erupt into laughter.
When my younger daughter calls upstairs to ask if I want to read her college essay, I say, “Give me five minutes!” I’m standing in front of her mirror experimenting with a half up, half down look.
My hair revolution happens to coincide loosely with the death of our dog. The events are unrelated yet somehow linked because Fig Newton and I both went white at the temples and had complicated relationships with groomers.
One of our cats eats his own fur. I know he’s stressed — his friend died (see above), the kids are growing up — but what I wouldn’t give for his thick orange coat.
A server at a brick oven pizza place says, “Cool hair.” I almost weep with gratitude.
Now that I don’t have to worry about salt or chlorine ruining my dye job, I remember how much I love to swim.
I’m walking back from the beach with my mom and my sister when it strikes me that, while white hair is our birthright, we also have good feet, strong opinions and a taste for wine. One of these things is more important than the others and hopefully that’s what I’ve passed down to my kids.
You don’t have to wait until you’re in a state of peak physical fitness. You don’t have to wear statement lipstick. You don’t have to explain why you’ve decided not to tamper with the hair that’s growing out of your very own head. You don’t have to love how it looks. You don’t have to spare people the view.
You can always change your mind. I might!