Mourning my silver hair transition
After 22 months of growing out the grey, I am, finally, fully transitioned. My silver journey is complete.
I have reached the Holy Hair Grail and claimed the silver chalice that we aspire to as fledgling transitioners.
It’s a voyage of self-discovery, determination and true grit. There’s been laughter (usually other people’s) tears and self doubt along the way.
There’s been hairbands, pixie cuts, a recent burning of follicles, which you can read about here, family interventions, head patting and disapproving looks, which you can read about here.
My friends, this has been a trek.
And here I stand before you with a head of steel and ovaries to match. A woman who accomplished her mission, without compromise or regret.
So why then do I find myself gazing with envy and nostalgia at pictures of those just starting out on their silver haired transition, secretly hankering for that time before the silver was finalised?
I’m even reminiscing over my demarcation line.
It’s similar to how I might look at a new mother and wish for those baby years again. I forget the sleepless nights, the teething, the stitches, the exploding nappies.
Maybe, like childbirth, I’ve blocked out the bad bits of transition. Although, to be fair, it’s quicker to produce a human being than a head of grey hair.
Empty nest
Am I missing my transition months?
As I fantasise about wearing an Alexis Colby style black lace veil hat like these, reality makes its own, less dramatic, entrance.
Have I already forgotten the pain of walking around like a seagull pooed on my head, being asked if I’d missed a hair dye appointment in lockdown, or the embarrassment of being singled out on a Zoom meeting with two-tone hair?
While I love my silver, once you climb the mountain there isn’t anywhere else to go.
My colour is complete. For the first time in an age, it’s genuinely permanent. I’m not used to a constant colour. I don’t know what to do (how about enjoying it?).
Yes, I could dabble in temporary colour to mix it up. I could go wild and add a diamante slide or sequinned hairband.
I can grow my hair, cut my hair, get a fringe, grow out a fringe, wear it straight or wavy. But none of these come close to the thrill of the grow out.
Have I traded hair dye dependency for transition addiction? Do I need to attend ‘Grow Out Anonymous?’
“Freedom!”
My transition was a badge of honour. I wore my battle scars with pride.
But As I counted down the grow out, the weeks dragged. I was desperate to move on to the next stage. I longed to be years in, swishing my hair about like a ‘Timotei’ advert instead of inching away at a snail’s pace – I have extremely lazy hair.
I envied those fully fledged Silver Sisters, with their heads of grey and infinite wisdom.
Now, I envy those with their transition outstretched ahead: the badger parting, the ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ crop. What is this strange feeling?
Maybe I’m bored. Even before I dyed my hair out of necessity, I coloured it for fun.
As a teen, I’d buy the ‘Harmony’ hair dye sachets to temporarily colour my dark brown hair a shade of ‘Plum’ or ‘Burgundy’, which was barely visible to the human eye, and which lasted one wash and left the bathroom windowsill looking like the prom scene from ‘Carrie’.
As the years rolled on, my hair absorbed every shade, from blonde to red, black to orange. No week looked the same.
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Now, it is silver. It’s consistent. Dependable. It rewards me for not being smothered in dye, with shiny, happy silver.
The forensics of growing out the grey
Transition may have lasted an age, but I never got bored. It excited me. I was fixated on the progress. I did not use root cover up as I was proud to display the grey.
I was also impatient. My two-tone hair irritated me. Not the roots, the orange ends. and dabbled in colour depositing conditioner to blend the ends. You can read about my Smurfing here.
During this time, I had two job interviews and although I initially faltered and considered wearing a wig/dyeing my hair/applying root spray, I went into the interview naked. Not literally, of course – I mean, the only job I might secure with that look is chief doughnut taster – but with full on root growth. I was offered both jobs!
My transition fascinated me. Each day I would wake up and examine the microscopic growth, captured in hundreds of images on my ‘phone.
My progress was charted. New milestones reached. A year to the ear, yes, yes. Measuring my growth became my new hobby.
I savoured my transition, because I knew it would not (hopefully) happen again, as long as my resolve or my health allowed.
Then one day, around 18 months in, my hair was all silver. I had reached my end goal. Celebrations!
Has the shine worn off?
As a child, you’re desperate to be a grown up. Then you grow up and want to be a child again once the disappointment and reality crash in.
But I’m not disappointed. Quite the opposite. I love my silver. I swoon over it with the look of love. I want to introduce it to my friends and family, treat it to a spa day and an Early Bird ‘Harvester’.
colours, only to finally find peace when the dye ceases.
The only tears will be of relief at not having to ever to apply ‘Medium Brown’ to my scalp again, only to discover the manufacturers have deceived me.
It was not the ‘Medium Brown’ I was promised by the smiling, shiny model on the box.
It was not the shade of a majestic Oak tree or a seal’s silky coat. It was the colour of dark, sticky treacle, which made me, with my Victorian pallor, look like Count Dracula’s latest casualty.
Grey-haired wisdom
Just like the pooch in ‘A Dog’s purpose’ I have lived, and I feel qualified to bark about my experiences.
During transition, I would pass on words of wisdom like a respected hair Oracle. The Great Follicle, or Yoda passing on advice to a young Luke Skywalker:
Me:”Once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny, consume you it will.”
(I proceed to tell Luke about my battles over many, many years, in my pursuit of dark hair. I catch him floating away when I reach ‘Episode VI – The Parting Strikes Back’ and I use the Force, and the threat of being grounded for a week, to focus his attention).
“Is the dark side stronger?” Luke asks.
“No, no, no,” I assure him. “Quicker, easier, more seductive.”
I tell him about how brown box dye lured me in from the end aisle of ‘Boots the Chemist’ with the promise of a quick fix for my grey roots.
“But how am I to know the good side from the bad?” he asks.
I assure him: “You will know… when you are calm, at peace, passive.”
I’m right, of course. I am at one with my silver hair, and order has been restored to my Empire.
Maybe it’s time for a bit of chaos.
What do you think? Do you miss your transition? Has the shine worn off your silver? Or are you currently going through the transition process? Let me know in the comments below.
