I’m now a silver sister. Formally a #silversister as social media goes. Officially gray for two years. Who knows what Instagrammer coined the term, but since we’re supposed to crave identity, I should be clinging to the moniker. Gone are my Cher and Farrah styles that defined my former hair modeling days, leaving me to speculate if I really need a hair posse at this life stage…

Fifteen+ years of hair dyes (plus three epic henna fails) trying to match my natural auburn color seemed a little pointless in 2020 when the country shut down. When things opened up that summer, my trusted stylist lopped off seven inches of faded glory, revealing a course-ish salt and pepper crop.

I can’t say that I was in love with the results, still having a swath of blended colors in the front. As though I wasn’t fully committed. It must be how a mullet feels, confused why it’s perched so ambiguously atop a human head.

I tell you this saga because I’m confused why going gray is seen as some socially forward act. I mean, a good coif date is divine, so I get that hair is really, really important. But must we aggregate all women who choose to go dye free as experiencing some cathartic peak?

What exactly does the gray conversation symbolize? As we age, it’s not that we care less about our appearance. It’s more a matter of practicality and priority I suppose. We’d spent years catering to a crowd that insisted we morph ourselves into a facade of beauty. A consecrated act of sorts. When some of the population decided we/they were weary of it and ready to explore fewer restrictions, it’s suddenly a statement. On my honor, I promise to represent women who gray with no high or low lighting.

Frankly, it’s a tiring conversation two years later, when we’re still putting energies into dividing women into camps. Does she or doesn’t she? Why do we care?

Yes, I look a little older. Likely a combination of lockdown residual, relaxed health behaviors, and well, aging. I’m undeniably 63, sometimes requesting a senior discount, sometimes adding the perfect pop of lip color before running my errands. These are not meant to be symbolic acts of aging. They are non-defining human actions, much like toilet paper over or under (I’m an over the roll fan).

My hair is simply one visible indicator of natural aging. We can discuss other signs when I write about bras.

Pic 1: 2020 Getting ready to chop it off. Pic 2: 2021 Au naturelle after a few months of growing out last bits of color.

Gray hair, why do we care