To Color, Or Not to Color
That is not even the question
Note: I have been avoiding posting things here because of the paralysis of analysis, aka, my Perfectionist protesteth too much. I love her, but she needs some boundaries. So I’m going to just write, even if I’m no Shakespeare.
I’m getting my hair done today.
This month I’m turning 62, and I’m still coloring my hair, warm blonde with highlights. When my hair finally grew in after the first couple of years of baby baldness, I was a brunette. After I turned to the light side about a decade ago, I briefly flirted with a little purple in the back. That was fun but not something I wanted to keep.
It’s a thing to throw up your hands at some point and say, What the hell…let it go gray. I’m not there yet.
Like many things adiaphora (indifferent), I used to think it was WRONG to color your hair, to not let yourself naturally age. Even yesterday, I reposted a meme on Instagram dissing the phrase “anti-aging,” though I do think it makes a good point about falling in the other ditch of pursuing the fountain of youth.
I’m definitely pro-aging. I just want to do it gracefully, not looking eternally young (the movie Death Becomes Her is a humorous take on how that can go awry), but looking good (so subjective and personal, that word!) So…what about that hair color, hmm??
Adiaphora. Things indifferent. Judgment can go both ways, I guess, though I admit I still have qualms about certain body modification practices: botox, face lifts, liposuction (you have to watch that movie). How much is too much? Again, I guess that depends, and I do love my certainty. If I lived in another time or socio-economic class, this discussion would be moot.
It does seem, however, that older people become ciphers, even inconvenient, in this society, this cultural milieu. I’ve been treated as invisible at times when shopping, ignored by clerks or practically shoved aside by groups of teens brushing past me rather than making way for me. I have a sense of vulnerability at those times, knowing a time is coming when I will not be strong enough to advocate for myself. One day, if God grants me days, I will not be merely getting older–I will be elderly.
My body reminds me of this every morning as I stretch and loosen stiff joints and ligaments just to be able to stand up straight, consciously aligning my spine and pulling back shoulders that tend to roll forward into a hunch. Yes, I want to age. No, I don’t want to be aged.
If I google “wise woman” images, I might find older women with long, flowing gray hair accompanied by some spirit animal like a wolf or leopard. My spirit animal is a silly puppy named Rusty who jumps on the back of the sofa to greet me every morning with tail thumping and tongue lolling. It’s nice to be greeted with such enthusiasm when I am not looking my best. It’s a reminder not to put too much stock in appearances.
I don’t know if there is a right way to do this aging thing, except to accept that it will happen, no matter how I feel about it. Wisdom and aging are a good pairing, like certain wines and cheeses (which, as we know, become more flavorful with age).
The older I get, there are some things (many things!) of which I become less certain. But I am certain of this: As I age, I need wisdom. I aspire to be a wise woman, though it may be without the flowing gray hair and a mysterious spirit animal.
Even to your old age and gray hairs
I am he, I am he who will sustain you.
I have made you and I will carry you;
I will sustain you and I will rescue you.Isaiah 46:4