The Silvering
It started in my mid-twenties, sprouting far too soon for my liking. Hair the color of old age itself had arrived to announce that the silvering had begun. “Not yet,” I begged. “Not while I’m still young.” But the follicles failed to listen and my fears swelled within. “From now on you will deteriorate rapidly,” they told me, as if they could see the future. “Before you turn 30 you will lose your youth and your looks.” Believing every word, I reached for the tweezers, hoping to buy myself another decade at the very least. The interesting thing was that, despite my horror, I wanted to turn silver, eventually.
Years before, when I was a babe of 20, I became obsessed with The Two Towers, the second movie in The Lord of the Rings trilogy. In the film, the wizard, Gandalf the Gray, battles a fiery demon to the death, resulting in his miraculous rebirth as Gandalf the White. As a student of Carl Jung, I was familiar with the concept that one must face their shadow self to ascend in consciousness. Deeply plagued by my own demons, I watched this battle and resurrection play out in the darkened theater with tears streaming down my face. Witnessing these archetypes in their cosmic dance was healing on every level, providing me with the much needed evidence that such transformations were possible. Gone was the gruffness of Gandalf the Gray replaced by an inner peace that was palpable. As the embodiment of pure light and love, Gandalf the White was capable of illuminating even the darkest of days. My soul rejoiced at the revelation of his snow white hair, staff, and cloak. When he summoned a white horse to carry him off to find reinforcements, I felt as if my heart might burst. “That’s who I want to be,” I thought, imagining myself as a beacon of peace with snow white hair. “Someday.”
However, this thought was completely abandoned when my involuntary transformation began. Faced with the demon of old age, I clung to my youth much like Gandalf the Gray clung to the rocky ledge of the crumbling cave before accepting his fate. As I removed each unwanted hair, I prayed that my superficiality wouldn’t interfere with my spiritual growth too much.
As the next two years passed, I continued to pluck out the interlopers regularly until a troubling thought occurred to me. “What if I’m growing a whole patch of silver and by pulling them out I’m creating a bald spot?!” A look of terror spread across my face in the mirror. As I lowered the tweezers, I decided that a smattering of silver was undoubtedly preferable to baldness. From that day on, I gave up my systematic pruning, but the fears remained.
The avenue most take to circumvent this natural aging process is easy enough. One simply goes to the salon or drugstore and reclaims their youth. But I didn’t want to dye my hair. Having spent the majority of my teens maintaining blonde highlights, I was familiar with the upkeep. The frustration that accompanied having roots was enough to make me wonder why I started coloring my hair in the first place. At 21 years old, I asked myself with true bewilderment, “What is my real hair color anyway?” Having no clue, I bought a box of reddish brown hair dye and colored my own hair for the first and only time. Was it my natural color? No, but it was close enough for me to let it grow out, at which point, I promised myself that I would never color my hair again.
Eventually, I was able to claim my natural hair color throughout the length of my strands. My hair was a medium shade of brown with hints of red when the light fell just so. Having not seen it since age 14, I was excited to be myself again, no maintenance required. I basked in the warmth of self acceptance for a few short years until the silver intruders arrived. Having finally achieved what had felt impossible, I took this turn of events quite personally. “Can you accept this version of yourself?” the Universe seemed to be asking. “Nooooo,” I wailed.
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With plucking no longer an option, there was nothing left to do but surrender to my fate. “How long do I have?” I wondered, factoring in my family history. My father had gone completely silver in his twenties. Would I be the same? With bated breath I checked the mirror each day, counting their numbers, fearful of a takeover.
At 28 years old, with enough silver hair to make anyone that age uneasy, I found what I didn’t know I was looking for; women who were brave enough to let it happen. I was freshly launched into my Saturn return with a new job as an after-school teacher at a progressive school in the District of Columbia. It was there that I found them. Two brave and beautiful women who were embracing the silvering in a way that I had never encountered. Where I grew up, in the suburbs of Philadelphia, women didn’t go silver. They went to the salon and alchemized their strands from silver to gold. But these two women in their early 40s weren’t wasting their time or their money on such things. Instead, they were simply allowing this magical process to unfold.
The first woman could’ve stepped off the pages of Vogue. She was the mother of three and the most stylish person I’ve ever met. Her taste was so impeccable that she made her living off of it, working as a personal stylist to D.C.’s elite. Every day she arrived at school pick up in oversized designer sunglasses and an ensemble that was a feast for the eyes. Whether mixing patterns or color blocking, her attire was flawless and fascinating, but her hair was her crowning glory. It was completely silver in varying shades that were lightest around her face. The sight of it was so breathtaking that it was hard to believe it was real. The Universe was obviously a qualified colorist placing the highlights exactly where they would be most flattering. I asked her about it one day, complimenting the undeniable beauty of her hair. She confessed that the change had also begun in her 20s and that she ran to the salon to hide it. It wasn’t until her third daughter was born that she decided to see what the dyes were obscuring. I met her just as the last of the color was growing out and she embraced her truth with a confidence that was contagious. Since fashion was also my primary source of expression, my fears began to settle. Seeing that her hair only enhanced her appearance, I began to wonder what the future might hold for me. After all, she was gorgeous and stylish. She was creative and unique. She was successful and savvy and completely silver.
The second woman possessed an Earth Mother essence that was rare in the District, or anywhere for that matter. Her two sons were as different as night and day, but she embraced them both with loving acceptance, addressing their individual needs with the utmost care. At school pickup, it was clear that style was the furthest thing from her mind as she arrived day after day in oversized sweatshirts and comfy pants, her long and magnificent hair cascading down her back.
She wasn’t completely silver. Not yet. Instead, the brunette color of her youth was slowly being overtaken by the change. The silver was simply surfacing, like the colors of autumn that quietly emerge once the summer comes to an end. It trickled down from her crown amidst the color she was born with creating the most exquisite dichotomy. Her hair was warm and cool, youthful and wise, natural and otherworldly. I marveled at its beauty, but more so at her lack of concern. All my fears of aging melted away when I saw her. She was beautiful and happy, her skin golden from enjoying time outdoors. The only enhancement on her face was a smile that seemed to say, “I like you just the way you are.” Everything about her felt effortless and that feeling drew me in. I loved talking to her as we watched the children pour out of school and swarm the playground, wanting to soak up whatever it was that fueled her zen-like nature. As a lifelong perfectionist, being in her presence felt like an encounter with a sage. “Could contentment be as simple as accepting life’s challenges with grace?” I wondered. Clearly, it was.
In the space between these two women, I found myself and who I wanted to be. Stylish and confident, like the first. Serene and content, like the second. I wanted to embrace life and all that it had in store for me, and my hair. After all, autumn was my favorite season. Didn’t I want to see my own locks slowly transform like a mighty forest? I did. More than anything. And thanks to these women, I knew the transition would be dazzling the whole way through. What they gave me was a gift beyond compare. Evidence that aging could make one more beautiful. With my fears assuaged, I released my grip on youth and let myself tumble into the unknown, trusting that my transformation would empower others, just as my silver-haired expanders had empowered me.
They don’t know how much they meant to me. They don’t know that because of them I embraced the silvering and surrendered to its magic. But I know what they meant to me. I know that because of them I welcome this process with delight, allowing the silver to wash over me in any way it pleases. After all, not every demon is meant to be fought. Age didn’t want to hurt me. It didn’t want to steal my youth or my looks, but it did want something. It wanted me to face my fears so I could continue to grow.
A decade and a half into this journey and I still feel excited every time I look in the mirror and see my silver shining back at me among my brunette curls. After all, it’s just another aspect of my ever-evolving self. An aspect that reminds me each day is that letting the Universe take the reins leads to the most miraculous outcomes. My hair is a natural wonder. An expression of beauty that rivals a colorful sunrise or a sky full of stars. An ever-changing masterpiece that even the Universe couldn’t replicate. And I can’t help but feel that with the arrival of each new metallic strand, I get a little more magical. It won’t be long until you find me atop a silver horse, staff in hand, my cloak and hair trailing out behind me as I light up the world with one spectacular color.
