In my twenty-six years of life, I’ve come to realize a few undeniable truths:
- While the existence of a higher power might be debatable, the genius behind Netflix deserves all the accolades.
- Cheetos, despite their orange residue and the associated judgment, are irresistibly delicious.
- Going to bed upset only amplifies your anger by morning.
- As I continue to age, I’ve decided to embrace my naturally graying hair.
It’s worth noting that “as I age” is a bit of a misnomer; my hair has already started its transition to silver, proudly displaying a distinguished streak. The time of my dark-haired days is gradually fading, and soon I’ll be rocking a full salt-and-pepper look.
Surprisingly, I’m looking forward to this change. Years ago, a stylist named Marco—who I suspect was more of a hair guardian angel than an ordinary person—prepared me for my early silver phase.
I encountered Marco at the tender age of 14, desperate to tame my ethnic curls. Back in the early 2000s, there were only two options: chemically straighten my hair or embrace the highly-gelled look that was all the rage. I chose the former, wielding an iron like a weapon. My hair, much like its heritage, was not easily defeated. On most days, it resembled the aftermath of an electrical storm.
In a bid to save my hair from my own attempts at styling, my mother took me to a fancy salon that specialized in curly hair. Enter Marco.
Marco’s salon was the epitome of luxury for a tween like me. I was greeted with a mocktail and a silk robe, and treated to a relaxing hair wash and head massage. Just as I was settling into this blissful experience, the stylist washing my hair gasped in horror. She plucked a gray strand and summoned the entire salon to witness my first gray hair.
But Marco wasn’t having any of it. Returning from his break, he dismissed the gasps and said, “Promise me you won’t dye that. You’ve earned it.”
Marco was a showstopper—bald, flamboyant, and always in a leather jacket. He embodied the spirit of a modern-day James Dean. I promised him I wouldn’t dye my hair, though I was skeptical about actually keeping that vow.
Fast forward to today, and I can proudly say I’ve changed my perspective. I’ve learned that embracing myself—flaws and all—is a beautiful journey. Admittedly, it hasn’t always been easy. I’ve struggled with body image and hair frizz. Yet, with each passing year, I recognize the truth in Marco’s words: I’ve earned the right to wear my silver hair proudly.
I’m committed to honoring my promise to Marco. I plan to face my gray hair with confidence, and if the world doesn’t like it, that’s their problem, not mine.
It’s essential to recognize that not everyone feels the same way about their hair, and I respect every woman’s choice regarding her body. As a Third Wave feminist, I believe in the freedom to choose how we present ourselves. While I prefer to embrace my natural hair, I also commend women who opt for hair dye or cosmetic procedures.
However, I believe celebrating our natural selves is a challenge we should embrace, even if it sometimes feels daunting. Right now, I am resolutely choosing to let my hair turn gray. I might play with colors now and then, but I’m ready for this journey. Join me if you feel inspired!
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Summary
In this article, I share my journey toward accepting my gray hair, reflecting on my past experiences with beauty standards and the influence of a memorable stylist. Embracing my natural look is a personal triumph, and I invite others to consider their own choices about self-presentation. Whether it’s hair color or other body modifications, the decision is deeply personal and should be celebrated.