I found my first gray hair when I was 26. Actually, a boy found it. He was my closest friend at the time and we sometimes made out when I was drunk, even though I had a boyfriend. (In my defense, he was much nicer than my boyfriend.) Sitting across from me in a booth at a fluorescent-lit Manhattan diner, he reached over the table to point out a lone strand of silver running through my shaggy bangs—a prerequisite look for any 20-something living in the Lower East Side circa 2006, that I had to have even though a cowlick made my fringe never fall quite right. I covered my face with my hands as I looked down at my french fries. “Noooooo!”
I plucked that patient zero gray immediately. But about five years later, when the number of silver strands reached a dozen or so, I asked a hairstylist to individually dye each one with a tiny paintbrush as if they were giving a three-year-old a manicure. I was able to make such a request because I was a beauty editor with the luxury of constant access to hair people, and enough gall to ask one of them to grant me such a ridiculous favor. Also, I was young and dumb.
As I transitioned out of this phase (admittedly, it took quite a while), I began to come to terms with my aging hair. Another five or so years later, after my daughter was born and the grays decided to invite all their friends to the party, I even tried to embrace the little buggers. I thought I could be that woman who says screw it, who takes the silver strands as they come with confidence, despite what society has been instilling in our brains since we exited the womb (I’m looking at you, Clairol). I realize now that the pandemic robbing me of my social life and ability to actually visit a hair salon may have played a much larger role in this attitude than any actual aplomb.
When the world began to open up again, I saw other women my age owning their gray in the way I was envisioning, and it made me feel like perhaps I could, or even already was, doing the same. Like one stylish woman in my social circle, with dark alluring brows and a septum piercing: The gray hairs outlining the black of her bangs and deep side part almost act as an accessory, punctuating the coolness of the outfit she’s unfailingly always wearing.
A longtime friend who has settled in London has fashioned a rather charming uniform for herself: always perfectly put together with a slight retro twist in a neat blouse, chunky dark rim glasses, and a bold matte red lip. The first time I saw her post-COVID, her straight dark hair was streaked with grays that felt perfectly in step with her subtly stylized look. Hello, I am happy to be here! Don’t I look good? they seemed to say.
At the first of many birthday parties for the kids in my daughter’s pre-K class, I deemed one mom ‘cool’ in my head strictly on first impressions. She joked sarcastically, wore trendy shoes balanced out by a no-fuss button-down, and had long hair with a frosting of gray that seemed to give her a power that drew me in.
In their own way, each of these women made going gray look effortless. That’s an overused word in the world of beauty, but somehow in their case, it feels like less of a clichė. But the truth is, letting your hair go gray in your 40s does take effort. Sure, it means fewer trips to the salon, but while your wallet and overbooked calendar may thank you, you’re also putting yourself out there and making a statement—look at me, soak me in—and finding that kind of confidence can be a lifelong process.
The idea that women fade into the woodwork as they age—cast less frequently in movies, ignored by servers at bars and restaurants, being passed over in public spaces—is a real thing. In fact, it has a name: invisible woman syndrome. A survey by Gransnet found that seven out of 10 women begin to feel “invisible” as they age. It may seem like embracing your grays would exacerbate this phenomenon, but these women are doing the opposite. They are stepping into the spotlight, saying that A) I’m accepting my age, B) I’m accepting how my age is affecting the way I look, and C) I’m okay with everyone seeing it.
It turns out I was only on board with two out of three of those declarations. A) I accept my age. Sure, I get a little frisson of glee when I tell someone how old I am and they act surprised. And yes, I had the obligatory breakdown around my 40th birthday when a bunch of my insecurities bubbled to the surface as I came face-to-face with my fifth decade. It’s only natural, right? But I put myself back in therapy, and at 42, I feel pretty darn good about where I’m at. B) I was accepting my grays. Though I may have occasionally sat on my bathroom counter examining the silver at my roots in the mirror for longer than I would like to admit, I swear it was more out of a sense of fascination than disgust. But C—oh, C. Being okay with everyone seeing it—this is where things got a little iffy.
Last year, at the opening cocktail hour of a work retreat, a colleague who is also a friend, who I hadn’t seen in person for a while since we’d all been working remotely, came up to say hello. I hadn’t dyed my hair in months, and as we told each other how nice we looked, all dressed up and not on Zoom, she said, “Wow, if someone like you is not covering up your grays, maybe I should go for it, too.”
She meant it as a compliment. She was trying to say that if someone stylish like me was doing it, it might inspire her, and others, to do it as well—just like my gray-haired muses. Maybe she thought I made it look effortless, too. But her words seemed to stop in midair and flash in front of me: You have gray hairs and everyone can see them! I made an appointment to cover them up the next day.
It may seem silly that I didn’t think everyone else could see my gray hairs: I sure saw them, and I saw them on the aforementioned women. In fact, it was usually the first thing I noticed about them. But maybe it’s like the difference between hearing and really listening. I didn’t register that people were taking them in. I never considered that it might be the first thing people noticed about me—and as it turns out, I’m not ready for that.
Perhaps I’m not confident enough to take on the “woman who says screw it” role after all. I love the idea of it. I love that women around me are doing it. I love what it represents. But when it comes to actually being a poster child for youngish gray-haired women everywhere, I might just not have what it takes.
In my beauty editor days, I could have gotten Botox or fillers without dropping a dime, but I prided myself on not wanting to go down that route; of not succumbing to the constant pressure to look younger; on fighting the anti-aging status quo. Of course, I was still young. Who’s to say what I would do with that sort of access now? If my behavior at the retreat is any indication, I’d likely be signing on the dotted line. When it comes to my gray hair, as much as I believe in dismantling the impossible beauty standards aging women are faced with, was I willing to put myself out there to do it? I guess not—or at least, not yet.
But the thing about getting older is that while yeah, I may not be ready to have the spotlight shining on my grays, it’s not like that night in the diner 17 years ago. I am not burying my head in my hands in embarrassment. I am not ashamed of my gray hair, nor am I ashamed that I feel the need to cover it up. Yes, I want to fight the patriarchy and the anti-aging industry, but I’m also not beating myself up about booking that appointment. I’m okay with where I’m at. As I have aged, I’ve learned how to do this: how to meet myself where I’m at. That 26-year-old with the unflattering fringe had no clue how to do such a thing.
Maybe I’ll be the chic woman with streaks of gray hair claiming her power in a couple years, but for now I’m doing what feels right in this moment—and I’m just very grateful to no longer be young and dumb (and to have finally realized that bangs, no matter how trendy, are just not for me).
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Megan Cahn started her editorial career at Sassy’s less irreverent younger cousin, CosmoGIRL. She went on to work in the women’s lifestyle space at publications such as ELLE, Refinery29, Cup of Jo, and Best Life. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband, cat, and five-year-old daughter, who has adopted her childhood Cabbage Patch Kids collection.
