Purple
“I wanna go purple. Full on.”
Those words are still marching around in my mind after two years because confident, brave words march. Who has the guts to say those words when they sit down in the black, twirly chair next to mine in the salon? She did.
“I wanna go purple. Full on.” And she meant it. A flurry of activity began after those six words. One assistant began tearing foil. Another appearing with paint brushes as the stylist began mixing her purple, creamy blend in a small, plastic bowl. This was getting exciting. That bowl of purple cream was split into two bowls and away they went, meticulously placing very small sections of hair and purple cream inside their foil-lined hands. Then a fold, fold of the foil… followed quickly by picking up the next foil square to fill and repeat. I was mesmerized, as if I was witnessing the making of a magic trick. The client sat calmly, scrolling on her phone.
I had a cute bob shaping up nicely with my brown hair though, I couldn’t help but think, which wild color would I do? Full on? If I had the guts. Purple? Pink like the stylist two chairs down from mine? Blue? No. Green? Maybe. Or a beautiful shade of peacock blue? Yes. And maybe even full on. Would it be permanent? Hmmm. Maybe not. I had been coloring my hair at home for many years, using Naturtint 5N Light Chestnut Brown to cover my grays. Alas, I confidently carried on with my cute, brown bob. Full on. But I sure envied her bravery.
Her head swelled with foil pockets, and I wish I had the time to stick around to see her purple. Full on. However, my day’s schedule rushed me from the salon. Where does someone get bravery like that? Did she wake up that morning and decide with 100% certainty to go purple? Full on? That was more than just a decision. It was also an attitude and sass.
Hair is such a statement in this world, even having stories written about it. “Hair” and “Hairspray” are popular Broadway musicals. Rapunzel and Goldilocks found themselves at the center of their stories. When I try to describe a person to someone else, I often begin with a description of their hair. “She has shoulder length brown hair.” Or, “She has long, blond, curly hair.” As I have gotten older, I’m realizing the deep impact my hair has had on my own narrative, largely due to our society’s obsession with women’s locks.
My husband began losing his hair in his 20’s and for a long time, I looked years younger than him, though I am actually two months older. I know this because people used to point it out to us and I loved it. To me, it meant that I was young, vibrant, and pretty. But, I had not realized how much I banked my self-esteem on those comments until I turned 50 years old and those compliments started to dry up. I started to believe that I was becoming old, tired, gray, and not pretty.
For as long as I can remember, anti-aging messages have been screaming loud and clear that it’s not okay to age naturally or to look my age. There is nothing wrong with being 53 as long as I don’t look 53, or older. Aging is out. Anti-aging is IN. The media, especially social media, tells me I should press hard into turning back the hands of time by concealing the outward signs of aging like spots, freckles, lines, extra pounds, and graying hair. Believing these poisonous messages for so long has led to so much body self-loathing. I found Naturtint 5N Light Chestnut Brown hair coloring gel and began coloring my graying hair when I was in my early 40’s. At least that was a rather quick and easy fix for that particular insecurity. But now I just dread the whole coloring process. It’s such a bother and I actually hate doing it but, yet, I still do it in order to look young-ish. My sisters are 59 and 62 and they both let their gray hair grow out last year. Not only do they look fantastic but I really envy their freedom from coloring their hair and embracing this visible sign of aging rather than fighting it. Can I follow in their footsteps at 53?
I went to the salon two days ago for a trim and as I sat waiting for my stylist, I was captivated by a mature woman with the most beautiful gray hair, full on. It was all one length, gleaming, and it swept down just below her shoulders. The sunlight was pouring into the salon and enveloped her, making her gray hair look radiant.
I said to her, “I love your hair!”
“Thank you!” she replied as she twirled around with a big, confident smile.
Wow. My eyes were glued to her beautiful hair while she paid for her haircut. The moment was interrupted when an assistant called my name and then guided my arms into a big, black cape. My turn came to have my hair washed and trimmed but I also wanted some encouragement about all my gray hair, hiding imperfectly, beneath the 5N. I needed some therapy for my hair self-esteem. I needed what I like to call, “hairapy.”
I asked my stylist, Chloe, “How do women decide it’s time to stop coloring their hair?”
“That takes a year! A whole year!” she exclaimed with wide eyes.
I knew that much, but I couldn’t decide if I was ready to go gray. She must have sensed my unease and said that I could always give it a try and, if I don’t like it, just go back to coloring it. Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that. My decision doesn’t have to be permanent right now. However, I did take the first step and canceled my Amazon subscription for this bulk-sized case of 5N Light Chestnut Brown hair color.
Thinking back two years ago, in the very same salon, was it the full-on purple I admired and wanted to emulate just a bit? Did the purple hold the power to turn my body-shaming thoughts into body-loving with a side of sassiness? No. The purple was her journey, not mine. The purple caught my fascination but it was her courage, confidence, and tenacity that kept me thinking.
When I began this essay two years ago, I envied the young woman who bravely went purple. But two days ago I admired the mature woman who confidently twirled her full on gray hair and flashed a joyous smile. She is the one I want for a role model now. The same salon, two years apart, and two totally different women who caught my attention, lending me important messages I needed to hear. At 53 and still perimenopausal, I’ve decided it’s time to quit believing my inner critic and have compassion on myself instead. It makes me angry that I’ve treated these body-shaming messages as though they are the truth. I am weary from my inner critic winning and steering my thoughts and actions out of a fear of looking older. I’m exhausted trying to not age, and look younger than I am. I’m 53, with Light Chestnut Brown hair, full on, except where the gray strands are peaking through. Isn’t that just fine? Isn’t that good enough? Am I good enough?
Scores of these negative thoughts populate my mind when I see models and actresses in magazines, movies, and media. They have perfectly colored hair, buns of steel, flat abs, smooth skin, and hips that have just the right amount of curves. Then I look in the mirror and see a woman with short legs, graying hair, buns of softness, and brown hair with silver streaks like Christmas tree tinsel. My inner critic pipes up with…
“You need to lose 20 pounds.”
“You should just live in the gym.”
“You better cover those grays. No one is going to think you are young, vibrant, or pretty anymore.”
“The smaller the number stitched inside your jeans, the better.”
I’ve learned in these last two years that I don’t have to believe everything I think and feel about myself. In fact, thoughts and feelings are not always facts. Sometimes they are fact and sometimes they are just garbage. And now I’m learning how to tell the difference. If I’m left feeling bad about myself, it’s fictional garbage. If not, it may be factual.
Now, two years later, as I’m staring at a box of Naturtint 5N Light Chestnut Brown, this essay is finally coming to a conclusion. I’ve decided NOT to, “let myself go”, as sociey warns me against. Rather, I am letting my self go forward in life without being bullied by this social imperative which only makes me feel bad about myself. I am always more than enough, no matter the double digits on the tag inside my jeans, the wrinkles on my neck, and the streaks of gray in my hair. My self-worth no longer depends on these things.
The day is coming, perhaps one year from now, maybe two, I’ll be gray, full on. And I’m not even scared about it.
Great essay! I waited until my late 60s to let my hair go from blonde to gray. Don't regret it for a moment. What decided me was I liked the color of the gray I saw in my roots. One of my friends tells me I should go to a salon and make it more "silver" -- it would make me look younger and more attractive, so don't think you won't still get comments from society -- you will, no matter what you do with your hair. It's only important what you think about your hair color.