A couple of years back, someone I met on Hinge wanted me to get on a call, something I don’t really like to do as an introvert who hates speaking on the phone. But I humored him because I will generally give anything safe a try once before I rule it out. “What’s your favorite body part of yours?” he asked after some small talk. I was taken aback because it sounded intrusive to me for a first call, as we hadn’t even met. I responded by saying that it was my smile, something my ex once described as a “beautiful smile,” that he will miss. I erased this weird call from my memory as soon as I hung up, so I barely remember whether I asked him the same question and what he said in return.
Coming to think of it now, a smile isn’t really a body part. I do love my smile. But if I were to answer his question based on my body, my hair is actually my favorite body feature. My hair is naturally wavy, more straight than wavy, something rare where I grew up.
In my late 20s, my hair started going gray all of a sudden. I blame it all on work stress and stress induced by my husband at that time, although it’s most probably my genes, because my dad also had a full head of gray hair in his 30s. Of course, societally, it’s still more handsome and “distinguished” for a man to go gray than for a woman.
At that time, I ambushed my grays every two weeks with the precision of a home hair stylist. I colored it different shades of brown and burgundy. It looked dashing, if I may say so myself.
Long before COVID happened, I got sick of this bi-weekly coloring routine. I was never that good at taking care of my body, something I’m currently working on. So, after asking my then-husband if he minded me embracing my grays, and after he said not at all as long as I don’t let myself go, I stopped cold turkey. No transition, no gradual takeover. I just showed up at work with half-inch grays one day. Since personal questions are taboo in the developed world, and I worked with some nice and kind people, no one really said anything.
I love my gray hair. I consider it to be my silent middle finger to the patriarchy.
But I also miss the dark hair of my 20s. The contrast with my face was sharper then.
I’m allowed to grieve something while I celebrate the replacement. And so are you.
