Both my parents were grey-haired for as long as I remember. Perhaps that’s why when I started going grey it didn’t bother me. Or perhaps it’s because I had so many other things on my mind at the time that there was no room in the mental inn.
Whatever the reason, I am deeply grateful every time I whip in for a haircut, that I don’t have to sit there being bored to my toenails while my hair is shampooed (something I do for myself in the shower), slathered, foiled, rinsed etc etc. Added to which, I’d then have to worry about the possibly impossible task of trying to make my ageing face match my ageless hair.
However I do realise that my cavalier attitude to my appearance could be seen as a betrayal of womankind. Because not only do I leave my hair to show its age, but my face has never been transformed by any of the creams and lotions that claim to restore its youthful glow. I am wrinkly.
And furthermore, apart from occasions that matter (I can still scrub up quite well for weddings and funerals) I can’t get particularly excited about what I wear, as long as it’s clean and age- and environment-appropriate. No shorts, for example, and no frayed t-shirts in respectable Sydney suburbs.
There are downsides to being grey, of course. There are downsides to everything. The ‘grey means stupid’ attitude can be fairly irritating, although I do find a withering look usually sorts it out if you’re not feeling tolerant. But on the whole, I’d rather put up with the minor rubs than spend all that time at the hairdresser, when Time (as we know) Waits for No Man, let alone grey-haired old ladies.