Gray Means Death

February 25, 2013

Yesterday my friend's son asked me why my hair was gray. It's actually only partly gray. So far. At the ripe old age of 34. I told him, tongue in cheek, that it was gray because I was old. Instead of protesting, he offered a solution: "Why don't you dye it?" I asked him what was wrong with gray hair. He said it made me look old. And there you have it folks. Old. I asked him what was wrong with being old. There the conversation ended. But it got me thinking.

I've had several friends ask me recently why I don't dye my hair. Both men and women, both gay and straight, both young and old. One friend even offered, with a look of pity on his face, to have his stylist boyfriend dye it for me! As if it was some kind of problem that needed to be solved - something I would fix if only I could. But now an eleven-year-old was asking the same question. Already at eleven! Why all this denial of impermanence? Wait, denial is probably the wrong word. It’s not that we don't see ourselves aging, but that we’re so ridiculously afraid of it.

I know, I know, I sound like I'm taking this too far. People will undoubtedly argue that it's not a fear of aging, but merely a preference for a different hair color, or shade, or sheen, or whatever other words they can come up with to hide their - yes, I'm going to say it again - fear of aging, which, if we want to take it even further, translates into a fear of death. The bottom line is this: these aesthetic preferences all point to youth. Our whole idea of beauty consists of youth. And there is no room for the old, the aging, the past-their-prime. Because, you know... Death! Oh, sorry, didn't mean to scare you.

Fear of death. Is that what it ultimately comes down to? Is my graying hair a reminder to everyone who comes into contact with me - or with it - that they too are mortal and will one day croak? That they are, every day, inching - or in some cases speeding - towards “the end” (whatever that means)?  

Why do we try to make time stand still? Or worse, rewind the tape? No, I’m not 16 anymore, I don’t have the perfect ass of a 16-year old; I’m not 21, I don’t have the skin elasticity of a 21-year-old; I’m not even 30, those days (years) have come and gone. And in their place under-eye circles have landed. Why am I expected to hide this, to shield the sensitive public from the truth of my aging face and body? Why can't we all handle this (life, that is) with a little more grace?

There was a time when I did dye my hair (ironically before it started graying), spent time painting my face and dressing my body. There was a time when I worshiped the body, and wanted others to worship it. I judged my quality of existence partly (maybe mostly) based on how I looked. Back then a "bad-hair day" could seriously ruin my entire day! Of course, this kind of melodrama is quite normal (or at least acceptable) for a teenager. Oh, the arrogance of youth! Or at least of my youth. Today these things seem empty. And they probably seem that way because they are that way.

I am neither young nor old. I will always be younger than my mother. I will always be older than my "little" sister. I don’t know how near death is. It could happen today on my way home from work, or it could happen fifty years from now. With or without gray hair. I'm sure blondes and redheads die just as often as gray-hairs (is that what I'm calling them now?) I don't have the stats on this, it's merely a stab in the dark, but surely there's no get-out-of-death-free card being given away with every purchase of Clairol or L'Oreal, or whoever else is selling us snake oil these days. All I know is that right here, right now, I'm alive (I think). And one thing is for sure, this body will continue aging. My hair will only get grayer, my skin's collection of lines and wrinkles will only expand, my memory will only worsen. Until finally I can't even remember my own name.

So what? What are we clinging to by clinging to youth? I certainly wouldn't trade today's heart and mind for yesterday's beauty. Maybe one day I will dye my hair again. It's not that I'm purposefully not dying it out of protest. It just never occurred to me to hide the hair on my head – that it was something to be ashamed of. At least, not until these recent comments from concerned friends wanting to “beautify” me. Thanks guys. I guess. I know you're just trying to help. But help suggests there is something not right, something that needs to be changed. Hiding my gray hair will not improve my quality of life. It will not make me happy. It will not make me beautiful. These things are much more complex and take infinitely more elbow grease (growing pains included) than simply emptying a dye bottle onto one's tresses. But hey, if it's working for you, Carry On My Wayward Son (or Daughter)!

There's a big divide between me a decade ago and me now. I used to look at "older" people and feel sorry for them. I used to think they've let themselves go. And I would tell myself defiantly "I'll never let that happen to me!" The funny thing is that it's not what I thought it was. I haven't "let myself go". Some things are simply not as important to me as they used to be. On second thought, in a way I have "let myself go", in the sense that this thing I call "self" no longer has such a hold on me (cue Beatles song – You Really Got A Hold On Me – eerily apropos lyrics).

Despite all this, I feel I should add (as a disclaimer if you will) that I am not make-up free. Nor have I abandoned deodorant. Or perfume. I am not enlightened. I'm also not a hippy. Yet. Maybe I'm on my way. Who knows. The point is that, over time, I find myself questioning these things more and more. And to me that's the whole point, not to drop everything in an ignorant attempt just to reach another ideal (the ideal of non-self), but to question our very views and deep-seated (often second-hand) beliefs about these things.

These are things I know in my heart. Nobody can rob me of them or convince me otherwise. And at the same time, I don’t wish to convince anyone of them. Only your own experience can tell you. Or not. When you truly know something, words are unnecessary. And nobody has to agree with you or approve of it or even understand it. Hell, I don’t even have to understand it myself. It just is what it is, and all I have to do is let it be just that. Is that so scary?