Over the winter holidays, I decided to stop highlighting my hair. A visceral reaction upon noticing a lock of grey hair by my temple sparked this decision. I actually jerked away from the mirror, and blinked back tears. How socially conditioned was I to be so shattered by this sign of aging. I didn’t like that in myself and resolved to embrace my grey. Five months into this process, when I part my hair, I see brown and red, shot through with silver. Unexpectedly, I find this quite pretty. I do notice a lack of vibrancy, my hair becoming Kansas to its former Oz, but I take comfort that I’m sparing my scalp exposure to toxic dyes. I’ve contacted my hair stylist to discuss how I can avoid a jarring grow-out, and visited online support groups for “going grey gracefully.” If these groups exist for men, I’m not seeing them, but for women, the choices are plentiful. Most women don’t choose this path and when they do, they receive discouraging comments. I know I did. Dear ones pointed out my pale skin and light eyes and suggested I’d look washed out, erased, prematurely aged with grey hair. They could be right, time will tell. For now, quarantining with my husband, and pulling my hair back for constant zoom meetings, I’m not worried about it. We’re all just trying to survive here.

In 1950, only 7% of women colored their hair. Today, over 80% do. Powerful women-politicians, actors, CEOs- color their hair. It’s understandable; when you go grey, you push back against cultural expectations around female beauty, and risk power and status. Older women become invisible to the male gaze, are judged harshly by other women, and find themselves victims of ageism in the workplace. I’m not criticizing the decision to dye; it’s a personal choice. If coloring your hair makes you feel happier, more youthful, more alive, do it! But I wonder about the reasons so many choose to color; whether women, in particular, have bought into the idea that beauty, and power, diminish when you get grey and wrinkly. I now welcome the grey because I want to fight against these ideas. But I also know I can return to highlights if I don’t like what I see. This decision has a safety net.

Going grey has prompted larger thoughts about beauty and how I define it. Beauty is rarely simple, but always known. It touches my every sense; I've heard music so gorgeous it stopped me in my tracks, touched surfaces so soft I shivered, smelled scents that drew me into another space and time, tasted food that rendered me speechless, and seen things that blew my mind. When I find myself stressed, shallow-breathed, and questioning the meaning of my too-short mortal life, I find solace in beauty. It is there that I ground and find myself again. I open a bag of coffee beans and breathe in it’s tangy scent, wonder at the petals of flowers growing in my yard or in the vase in my kitchen, contemplate the woodland creatures that frequent our deck, or gaze into my dear husband’s eyes. When I witness beauty I feel deeply alive and at ease and aware I’m part of something bigger. I feel connected to the universe, to all beings, in a way that’s almost trippy. Beauty is a drug that ceaselessly woos me.

Some things I find beautiful:

Bravery

Family and friends

Rich colors

Velvet and silk

An outfit that fits like a dream

A pair of Italian shoes, long gone, that never failed to draw praise

The stunning trio of scent, texture, and color, like a rose

Or the delicate lilac, honeysuckle, or apple blossom

Baby toes

A glorious sunset or sunrise

Light reflected on water

Beethoven’s Ode to Joy

Cat Steven’s voice

And Mary Black’s, and Cara Dillon’s, and Eva Cassidy’s

Acoustic guitar

Deeply felt smiles

Pairs figure skating

The waltz and tango

Romantic love

Candlelight

Flames leaping from logs in the fireplace

Moonlight sparkling on fresh snowfall

Words strung together that bring me someplace new

Or remembered, or wished for

Fireflies

Art hanging in the galleries of Florence

The overtones of violin and cello, played together

Random acts of kindness

And calculated ones

Falling asleep holding my husband’s hand

And waking up in his arms

Come into my Eyes by Diane

Listen to Diane and Linda-Marie discuss Beauty in the parlor