My Hair Started Going Grey At 21 — But I Just Can’t Put The Dye Down

I still remember the first grey hair I discovered. My older sister (by a mere 18 months) marched into my room, distraught. "I just found my first grey hair!" she cried. But in true youngest sister fashion, I laughed. "Ha ha, you're old!" I teased. Less than a week later, I looked in the mirror and my 21-year-old self was greeted with a shiny, thick, wiry grey hair poking out amongst my brown locks. A stellar revenge plan, courtesy of my hair follicles.

My first instinct was a common one: I reached straight for the tweezers and yoinked it out, clearly in denial. Then, another grey hair popped up. And another. As the years progressed, I was forced to choose between having a bald patch on my head from incessant tweezing, or finally accepting that I was going grey before I'd even hit 25.

While the greys were arguably only noticeable to me at first, as I steadily approached my 30s, it became even harder to ignore. At 25, my face was framed with wee little silver spots along my hairline. When I put my hair up to clear it off my face, it was obvious what was happening. The solution? Wear my hair down always and never be seen without a fringe. At 27, I had managed to cultivate a secret patch of grey hairs all along my part line (why are they always at the part line?!), which I cleverly disguised with a trusty side-part (you're never out of fashion in my eyes, boo).

But now at 30, it's become almost impossible to deny what's going on up above. The grey hair that was once secretly confined to a hidden part line has spilled out. Almost overnight, my hair became peppered with silver streaks and patches. While I've historically been a staunch skincare fanatic (retinol = younger???), my hair has betrayed me, clearly signalling to the world: "Hey, look over here at this 30-year-old who's already gone grey!".

While my aforementioned sister decided to lean into her premature greying and grew them out in a way that contrasted beautifully with her almost-black hair (You know Rogue? Yeah, like that.), I just couldn't reconcile with what I saw in the mirror. Instead, I would cart myself to the hairdresser every six weeks (for the first time in my life) in order to disguise two realities that are in front of me. First: I'm ageing. And second: I look like I'm ageing.

The pressure to dye our greys is understandable. In fact, it's probably more societally accepted than actually embracing your silver locks, which is often seen as an act of defiance towards illogical and outdated beauty standards. In a world where women are force-fed anti-ageing products and are taught to aspire for eternal youth as if it's some sort of accomplishment (vibe check: it's not), it's of little surprise that we're often keen to cloak possibly one of the most visual signifiers of ageing — grey hair. With a global anti-ageing industry that's already worth $62 billion and is expected to reach a whopping $93 billion by 2027, it's clear that I'm not the only one who feels an inherent pull towards wanting to hide my age.

But women have steadily begun to be more critical of the anti-ageing industry — and indeed, the beauty industry as a whole — with movements towards embracing grey hairs becoming popular. Through simply growing out our grey hair, women have shined a spotlight on the absurd connotations that come with silver hair. Why should we be ashamed of getting older? Why are we aspiring to look like our 20-year-old selves? Why is grey hair seen as undesirable?

I wish I could say that I was part of the grey-positive revolution. That I was here to talk about how to finally embrace your greys or break free of the ageism that accompanies our fear of melanin-free hair. But I'm not.

I can't bring myself to put the dye down — and it makes me feel like a bad feminist.

Let me be clear: I'm critical (perhaps too critical) of every trend and beauty expectation that's placed in front of us. It's clear that the beauty industry feeds women insecurities in order to profit from them. Our youth-obsessed society only serves to marginalise older women, as if to say, "Buy this to not look like your mother". At every opportunity, I'll rant and rave that dyeing your grey hair is an attempt at distancing yourself from being older — a manifestation of ageism.

Yet, I just can't grow out my greys.

During some recent travels to the south of Europe, I couldn't help but feel my raging insecurity follow me wherever I went. The knowledge that I was going to be without a hairdresser for the next four months plagued me (Yes, I could have visited a fancy Italian hairdresser, but trust issues like mine prevent anything of the sort).

Initially, my hair was great and my assimilation as an early 20s hostel go-er was going swimmingly. The roots were covered, the bangs were schmick, the compliments were complimenting. Anytime a girl in their 20s said that familiar line — "Oh my god, you don't look like you're 30." — I felt my confidence and pride swoon and the anti-ageing monster within me being fed. It was delicious.

But by the time I hit month two, I was dealing with a serious regrowth issue. My golden brunette hair was being violated by my natural ashy colour, accentuated by greys that I'd spent the last ten years being in denial about. A severe lack of temporary hair dyes in chemists meant that I had to be creative with how I maintained my youthful appearance. Lots of dry shampoo designed for dark hair (even if there wasn't a shred of oil on my scalp), and 'root cover-ups' that made my roots look ten shades darker than the rest of my hair. I did (just about) anything to cover it up.

While there's a bigger theme to unpack there (don't worry, I'll see a psych soon), what's clear is that there are distinct ways in which grey hair — and the absence of grey hair — impacts how we experience the world, particularly in social environments. For many (myself included), the unwanted presence of grey hair makes us feel self-conscious, insecure, and like an outsider. It's hard to pin down exactly how people begin to treat us differently when our greys are on display (such is the nature of embedded beauty standards), but it's clear that there is a change. After all, we're insecure about it for a reason. It feels like it's telling on us, even as we parade around Europe, cosplaying as a 25-year-old.

Sometimes, I look in the mirror and think about what I would look like if I grew my hair out. I imagine how my natural ashy hair colour and my greys would look if they were finally given the opportunity to be paired together. I think about my mum, who finally felt like she could comfortably go grey after I finished primary school, out of fear that she'd be judged by younger parents. I fantasise about growing out my own Rogue-esque streak in my hair and how cool it would look. I mourn my sister's grey patch in her fringe — and how she eventually dyed over it.

Then I call up my hairdresser to make an appointment. Yep, just another regrowth colour, thanks.