It was sitting in a restaurant watching a large group of retirees when I decided to stop dying my hair. The group was so large a half-dozen tables had been strung end on end so they could all sit together. I guessed the ages to range from early 60’s to late eighties. Quite a stretch. A bus outside told me they were on some type of tour and all seemed to be having a great time. They were laughing, talking and very loud, so boisterous they were hard to miss. As I watched them I noticed all the men and most of the women had some variance of salt and pepper. It was the women without gray who stood out. And, not in a good way. As my eyes searched the table, they rested on a woman who looked to be about 80. She had blond hair, the new gray. I’m not getting older; I’m just getting blonder. But, there was a disconnect. The deep lines of her face and her softly wrinkled neck and arms didn’t mesh with the blond hair. Looking at her gray-haired counterparts, I realized she looked like a caricature while the women in gray actually looked more fresh, more real, more attractive. As they departed, one woman sporting brown hair was helped from the table to a walker. Late eighties, at least. Big disconnect. My mind was screaming. As I sat there, I decided gray. I want to be authentic as I age, not a weird shadow of my youth.

That was more than two years ago and I’m still happy with my choice. Even before the restaurant encounter, there were a couple of things moving me in that direction. First, my hair was not color friendly. I’d gone from coloring every six weeks to every 5 weeks to every 4 weeks and finally, my stylist suggested every 3 weeks. Every 3 weeks!?! Why don’t I just move in with you and you can touch it up every day? Secondly, I loathed the process and the way I looked for the next couple of days until dye stuck to my hairline faded away. With every stylist I’d ever gone to, nothing irritated more than their telling me to put a little more foundation around my hairline before leaving the salon. Pancake anyone? Foundation is not hiding this stuff! The idea of spending yet more money to keep up appearances while going through an experience I didn’t find pleasurable in the least was, in my mind, just plain nuts. A friend suggested I color my own hair. Been there, done that, I told her. It was cheaper but even more unpleasant than having someone else color it and the color faded quicker than a New York minute, revealing shimmering strands all over my head within the first week.

My decision, however, affected others in ways I didn’t anticipate. I didn’t expect the reactions a gray-haired woman can invoke in our youth obsessed culture. Take, for example, the women I hardly know who continue to insist after two years, I am “too young to be gray”. Aside from the minor annoyance I feel along with biting tongue to refrain from telling them it’s really none of their blankety-blank business, I think their constant objections reveal more about them than it does about me. Does my decision threaten them as in does my gray head remind them of their own fading youth? After all, they are also gray. They’re just pretending not to be and thinking covering it up makes them look younger. Well, for a while it does.

Or, take the day I sat at a major intersection in the right lane which, while it went straight across, disappeared on the other side. As the first and only in line, I was betting my Mazda-3 could out accelerate the delivery truck to my left before the driver, whose lane didn’t disappear, even crossed the intersection. The lane on my right was a turn lane only. As I sat there, I noticed a BMW pull into it but not take the opportunity to turn right on red. You can imagine my surprise when, as the light turned green and I shot out of the gate in my little zoom zoom, from the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the BMW crossing the intersection next to me! What? And, just imagine as I zipped forward and into the left lane, how shocked and amused I was to look in my rear view mirror at the two young men in that car, trailing me, waving fists in the air and giving me the finger. Well, guys, I’m the one with the right of way. Then, I thought, did they think my gray hair meant I was slow? Did they think they could beat me across the intersection because I was old? Ha!

Conversely, I’ve also received lots of compliments on how good I look with gray hair. A little off-handed but, hey, a compliment none-the-less. I also receive more “yes, ma’am’s”, doors held for me by both men and women and carry out help. I shop a big box store where help lifting 40 pound bags of compost used to be hard to come by. Sporting a gray head gets me plenty of muscle these days. I do get some double takes and questions when someone checks my license against my new look. But, at least I know they’re really paying attention. There are also the complete strangers who ask me about my gray hair as they wonder out loud to me about how gray their own head is. With lots of brown still to be seen on my head, I’m not totally gray. I can tell by the look in their eyes and the wistful sound of their voices, they’d like to be free of the color continuum, too.

So, going gray has revealed some interesting moments. I could almost do a study about the social impact of aging with a gray head. Nahhhh. But, seriously, ditching the dye was a very personal decision. I decided the time was right for me at age 59. The right age for someone else may be 65 or 70 or 80 or never. Or maybe you’re one of the women who decided to never spend a dime on color right from the appearance of that first strand of gray hair. Lucky woman. You’ll never have to look in the mirror and wonder if it’s time.



I don’t quite get the phrase, “going gray”. Yet I hear women saying, “I’m thinking of going gray”. They’re already gray, of course. It’s just covered over with blonde or brown or black or red. And so it was with me. When my six year old granddaughter, Lillie, saw me with my almost gray head after a several month break in time, she asked if I had colored my hair. “No, Baby.” I replied, “This is Grandma’s real color.” Not missing a beat, Lillie said, “No Grandma. Your hair’s brown.” And so it had been, not my natural dark, dark, almost black brown but a little Carolina wren brown. And so, I, too, had talked about “going gray”.

I had thought about going gray for years but always chickened out at the thought of how many months of looking like a crazy woman it would take. I was working I told myself. I had to look my best didn’t I? As if gray hair wouldn’t look that good. I had friends who had opted to never dye their hair and looked great with gray hair. I’d been dying mine for so long that, in truth, I wasn’t sure how gray I really was. My stylist/colorist estimated I was two- thirds gray. And my stylist also said I was too young to go gray. Then I saw a discussion of 50, 60 and 70 somethings on Oprah. One of them commented about how there were entire towns without a gray head. So, coloring one’s hair was the new norm. Only your hairdresser knows for sure. Right? Wrong! Everybody knows, I thought. You’re not fooling anyone.

Every four weeks I’d spend 2 hours getting colored, cut and blown dry. I’d leave the salon with brown dye stuck to the skin at my hairline, trying to cover it with concealer and foundation. A couple of days later I’d finally look normal around the hairline, which lasted for maybe ten days before my fast growing hair started to show the shimmering truth at my temples. I’d also look at myself in the mirror and see a disconnect between the wrinkles and laugh lines and my hair color. Would the real Kathy please stand up?

So four months after leaving the 9 to 5 behind, I announced to my stylist I was going gray. Alas, the colorist in her couldn’t deal with my announcement. As I stood watching her FREAK OUT in what I can only describe as an out of body experience, I knew sadly this was all about her. She ranted about how I was too young to go gray. She asked me where this was coming from as if having such a desire equated having a screw loose. She suggested that we add some blonde lowlights to my little Carolina wren brown so it would look more natural. She never stopped talking long enough to listen to me. While each gray head represents dwindling income for any colorist, this was about me. It wasn’t about her feeding her family. It wasn’t about societal norms. It wasn’t about what other people thought of me when they looked at me. And, even if it was any of her business, which it wasn’t, I certainly didn’t have any loose screws rattling around in my head. This was about how I felt when I looked in the mirror. It was about finding and being my authentic self. So, I fired my stylist/colorist and found another stylist who was more interested in great customer service than what the world thought about my going gray.

It took about eight months. In order to minimize the brain damage I had my hair cut really short. I also took my new stylist’s advice and went with a new combination blonde/caramel/brown color (yes, I got my hair dyed one last time just for appearances) where the difference between it and my gray wasn’t such a contrast. All things considered, the transition wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It’s been about a year now since I started the transition and I feel more comfortable looking at the authentic me in the mirror than I did that other woman. I feel less stressed living in my own skin. I’m free! Everyone around me has gotten used to seeing the real me. I’ve even received some compliments. And, oddly, or perhaps not so odd after all, I’ve had a few women ask me for all the gory details on how I accomplished “going gray”. You see, they’d like to be free, too.