Going Grey: A lesson in Self Compassion

My Father’s brilliant black hair began to grey at 25. I must have been eager to follow in his footsteps, as I began to grey much earlier. In the years that followed, I must have tried a hundred things to stop the changing of my black hair to white. This is the story of how and why I finally let myself just be.

Black hair feels as desi as roti and rice. That’s why my first white hair in high school felt like an anomaly. There was no way I could have let it live in my curtain of black hair, so naturally, it was pulled out.

The next few hairs were nonchalantly plucked away, though they were now being found too frequently for my liking. Their numbers continued to grow, and I curried favour from my older sister to help me manage them. She had white hairs as well - and I’d help her remove hers if she helped me remove mine. Still, they continued to multiply.

I’d spend hours in front of the mirror with a fine tipped eyebrow tweezer, searching for the white hair that didn’t belong. Each tweeze of hair caused a twinge of pain, and yet I’d continue on - no one said beauty was ever easy! I’d worry more and more about my white strands, and how abnormal it was to have them at my age, not to mention in my perfectly black desi hair!

I’d often heard the age old adage “Pluck one white hair, and two will grow.” I assumed the truth of the statement in my own case, and began to cut my white hairs instead! I’d cut as close to the scalp as possible, and end up with small white hairs that stuck straight up out of my head if I’d missed them. I felt more ridiculous than when I was plucking! By the age of about 21, I’d spent way too much time trying to battle the natural workings of my body, instead of just accepting myself for who I was.

My Father began to dye his hair black at 25, but I’d always veered towards the use of natural products and skincare, and knew that I could never use the same chemicals as him. I tried to find natural options instead, and scoured the internet for remedies and natural dyes.

I loved the red-brown colour of mehndi on my skin, but didn’t care for it in my hair. I was skeptical that coffee and black tea would help. The next thing I tried was black walnut hull, even going so far as to forage the ingredients myself. I tried dying my white hair with the boiled walnut husk tea, which resulted in a huge mess. My white hair hadn’t changed in colour, and I had dyed my palms a moss brown in the process. When I had to attend a job interview with the aforementioned dyed palms, I knew it was time to end the war. I let my white hair grow.

i thought that going grey was a personal dilemma. I realize now that it was so much bigger than just me. Society had so thoroughly trained me to hate the hair on my own head. Desi culture was obsessed with black hair, and Anglophonic culture was obsessed with youth. As I let my white hair grow, I knew I had to be steadfast in my resolve.

At first, I decided to let my white hair grow for a few simple reasons.

1. Picking and plucking white hair was a fool’s errand. It took waaay too much time, and I had wasted hours of my life in a fruitless and futile war against my own body. I was tired of fighting it - and losing!

2. My beauty goals revolved around simplifying my routines and products. Keeping my natural white hair was a part of this. I didn’t want to use dyes anymore. I didn’t want to pluck my hair away. I wanted to let my body follow its natural process. I began to see aging as growth - as a thing of beauty. We gain laugh lines from moments that enthrall us. Crow’s feet that tell us we’ve had reason to smile. White hair was a part of this growth process. it defined the journey of my years.

As my white hair continued to grow, I saw greater and greater disdain for my deviation from the norm. I’ve seen and heard outright disgust for my hair, have been told to dye it because it’s ugly, and have been told that it’s not “normal”. I can still remember waiting at the bus stop, and seeing a man do a double take at me out of the corner of my eye. “How old are you?!” I couldn’t help but laugh!

Most folks I know have white hair that they dye or pluck. I’ve even known a few like me who have had white hair since high school. We’ve been taught by society that youth has one face, beauty; only one guide. Going against social norms with my own body resulted in discomfort and confusion for others, but provided me with greater clarity as to who I want to be.

The last and most important reason I decided to go grey had to do with my grandmothers. For the 3 decades that I’ve known them, they have had white hair. When I began to let my white hair grow, I became more aware of their hair, and my feelings for them.

3. If I could love my grandmothers for EVERYTHING that they were, why could I not love myself in the same way? I was an extension of them - and my white hair was a reflection of the growth and journey they themselves had taken. I loved them, and I realized I could love myself just the same. This was the beginning of my self compassion.

15 years later, and my white hairs are hard to miss. They glitter like thin strands of silver - and ironically I get asked if I’ve dyed my hair! I’ve fallen in love with them, and the journey they represent.

I’m going grey. I always have been.