To the man who found himself on ayahuasca and the new mum,
You may be wondering what you both have in common…
No, it’s not an infant. One of you has a child, while the other acts like a baby when you get the Sunday scaries. However, your shared trait is almost the antithesis of youth… Grey hair.
Let’s start with you, a six-foot-something, beady brown eyed man in his late twenties. The way you met me for a wine, red of course, dressed in a white outfit that could be considered resort wear if worn on the coast of Spain. Concealed with a sleek trench, your fit was a reflection of your personality; calm and intelligent with the ambition that comes with a city’s hustle. You told me about how you quit your job in sales to pursue working a career building eco homes – an epiphany that came from taking part in a psychedelic ceremony in South America. Lacing a finger underneath your cheekbone, my gaze followed to your face and then traced to your hairline. Warm brown, dashed with specs of grey. Darting my eyes back to you, you caught my lingering gaze, which made me blush. Partly from embarrassment, how I’d noticed such a specific detail. And, partly because I found it hot.
Caught off guard by this, I consulted a friend.
“Do I have an old man kink?” I panicked.
“He was literally a year older than you,” she replied.
And it dawned on me. What drew me in wasn’t the grey hair or the signs of age — it was your quiet confidence. How self-assurance echoed because you were unbothered by the little details society deems as imperfections.
Then there is you, a woman dressed in earthy tones, your calming demeanour. As you walked into the cafe I work at, your hair was golden brown with thick streaks of grey, your roots blending from a soft white to warm caramel. Immediately I assumed you must be in your fifties, before noticing a newborn baby in a pram, and glanced up to your face – your skin fresh and glowy, eyes clear and smile lines just beginning to peak. You were clearly much younger, at latest, in your mid-thirties. You seemed almost otherworldly, because not dyeing your hair feels so foreign.
I was ashamed for jumping to such a conclusion, but in a world where women aren’t supposed to age, it makes sense that I fell off that ledge.
Both of these encounters made me think about my own grey hair. The sporadic flecks of white which are now more prolific as they weave between my dark hair. A contrast striking, and well… a little jarring. How I couldn’t even recall the last time I’d seen a woman under the age of 50 have grey. How I could list multiple men, but they’d all be deemed silver foxes. How I’d like to consider myself as chic as a zebra’s stripes, embracing my greys. But, I have considered dyeing them. Glazing over the strands to conceal any form of digression. Of, well, my age.
But is that really something I want to hide?
In the past week, I’ve had my age mistaken twice. Firstly, a man added two years to my birthdate, assuming I was turning 27. Secondly, after asking for the drink list, the waitress handed me the kid’s menu, assuming I was underage. In both instances, I was offended. Because I felt misjudged. Perceived incorrectly in a way that conflicted with my true identity – my correct age.
I don’t want to be 18, as I don’t want to be 27. Not because I fear getting older or want to disregard my youth, but because I am currently 25. And there is something really nice about that.
Unfortunately to isolate aging to a number is not that simple. My grandma at 80 still dyes her hair, and I’ve had friends engage in cosmetic surgeries designed to retain their physical youth. For me, this has never been an overt desire – but all it takes is a TikTok filter or Kris Jenner’s ‘incredible’ facelift to remind you of how you could look. How much better you could be.
The Uglies is a dystopian book I read in my teens that explores a society where everyone undergoes a surgery at 16 to transform them into looking beautiful. As a result, they end up looking like slightly different artworks sculpted from the same plastic. A piece of fiction that now feels like reality, take today’s Hollywood beauty standards. Today, when a celebrity opts to be natural, it’s a statement. Lorde’s ‘tired-girl girl aesthetic is a quiet rebellion against a glossy, manufactured beauty standard,’ according to Allure or Aimee Lou Wood saying “the way White Lotus fans are talking about me and my teeth — that I don’t have veneers or Botox — it feels a bit rebellious.” The way Pamela Anderson doesn’t wear makeup is, “like a radically brave act,” according to Harpers Bazaar, but she’s simply being natural.
I was discussing this with a friend who said, “I feel like an angel loses its wings every time someone gets some kind of surgery or fillers.”
“I think I feel a little more indifferent about these things. Maybe because of how normalised it is or because I know people who have felt more secure after having work done.”
“But don’t you think it’s a shame that society has made people, especially women, feel the need to have work done? That they will be more beautiful, more successful or confident if they are conventionally attractive. Youthful, white. No one needs to alter anything about their looks. That’s just patriotism and beauty capitalism working their magic.”
“The marketing industry does love to pry on insecurities,”
“Yeah. Like do you actually think brands would stop working with influencers because she didn’t get a nose job? Or because she was three weeks late to her Botox? Obviously not.”
“Yeah, but do you think female celebrities like Sabrina Carpenter or Taylor Swift would be as successful as they are?”
“It’s a hard one. Which is why I’ll never put any blame on anyone who wants to get work done. It’s just a shame how much society has normalised telling women they aren’t good enough. Like, how many of your male friends have even considered fillers? I feel like it’s at least a conversation I’ve had with so many of my female friends.”
Agreeing, I thought back to the two of you. About how I considered dying my hair for my birthday. A birthday blowout to add bounce and conceal my greys. Killing two birds with one stone.
But did I want to kill any birds at all?
I don’t crave youth, but I do crave success. And it would be remiss if I said pretty privilege isn’t a thing. I also believe in looking good to feel good – a nice outfit or touch of eyeliner always adds a pep in my step. However, I’ve always believed true beauty radiates from within.
After all, if I’m too old for Leo, I’m too old to put too much onus on how I look.
No matter how my physical beauty has altered, the different hair colours, whether my weight has fluctuated or my skin has been covered in acne, people have treated me the same. And, if they haven’t, that’s a reflection of their superficiality.
Every time I blow dry my hair, those grey glimmers are a little more vibrant, but they also feel like highlights. Dimension.
A physical marker that I am older, wiser and more beautiful (a fine wine that gets riper with age, obviously) which should be celebrated rather than concealed. I ended up doing my hair myself and even though I may eventually conceal my greys, potentially with a burgundy or blue tint, cause that would be cool, I don’t want to right now.
Instead, I’m joining both of you – brunettes with a shimmer of grey. Because the thing that sparkled wasn’t your white strands, it was your self-assurance and poise. Sure, only one of you had a baby – but you both shared a zest for life. A man who found himself on ayahuasca (questionable, yes – but it also provided a whole new life trajectory?) and a woman who literally brought a brand new life into the world.
Because that’s exactly what getting older is – new beginnings and well… a few fresh grey hairs.
xx Mandy
im obsessed as always