From The Straits Times    |
woman grey hair journey Smita DeSouza

I stopped dyeing my hair in 2014 at the age of 31. I didn’t agonise over it, or mark the day that I decided to ditch the dye. I just woke up one morning and decided that I was fed up of dyeing my hair every two and a half weeks, and stopped. I didn’t even track how many weeks it took me to grow out my very last dye job. And never did I imagine that one day I would be asked to write about why I stopped dyeing my hair!

I started going grey at the ripe old age of 27. It was just a few strands, but there they were, front and centre on my hairline. As someone whose parents had gone grey earlier in their lives, I guess it was inevitable, but I suspect the stress of crazy deadlines along with the declining health of a family member exacerbated the whole process resulting in my first white strands at a much younger age as compared to most others.

The reason white hair looks different from the rest of your hair is because it lacks pigment, which is why it also looks wiry and frizzy on the best of days. In a bid to control what was starting to look like antennae at the front of my head, I got my stylist in Bombay to dye just the front two inches of my hair. This process got incredibly tedious when I moved to Singapore and had to do it myself. I soon got tired of the elaborate process of draping an old towel (so you don’t get dye on your clothes), the gloves, mixing the colour and applying it carefully so you don’t stain your skin, waiting around before you wash it out and cleaning up the shower cubicle. It seemed so futile especially since I would have to repeat the whole process in another two and a half weeks. I also found the texture of the hair that was being dyed, changing for the worse. By then, the few unruly strands had spread across my hairline settling into two distinct streaks on either side.

I can work with this, I thought to myself, and decided to stop dyeing my hair.

Then came everyone else’s opinions.

Every time I visited a salon I was met with suggestions to make an appointment with a colourist, which I declined of course. My cousin pointed out that I had let myself go. My refusal to use all the options available to maintain a youthful appearance, was perceived as me as not taking care of myself. My mother, who colours her hair till this day, pointed out how much grey hair I had. Thanks Mum, I don’t see it every day when I look in the mirror at all. “You look so old!” she exclaimed. No one could understand why I wanted to embrace such a obvious marker of advanced age.

However, other than my grey, I didn’t have any signs of ageing. I didn’t have any wrinkles. I didn’t have sagging skin nor did I have discoloured or rough skin — all the other hallmarks of advanced age. I was using a variety of serums, creams, sunscreens and masks that would help delay the inevitable for as long as possible. And if I had noticed any of these, I would have immediately made an appointment with an aesthetic doctor to take steps to remedy the situation.

But I only had a few grey hairs.

I was lucky enough to inherit my mother’s lush, glossy hair that requires only the most basic care. The right shampoo and conditioner for my hair type keeps it looking healthy and I always opt for cuts that require minimal styling. I occasionally get hair masks and scalp treatments, but growing up in India, regular hair oil massages were the norm. Unlike my skincare routine that regularly evolves, not much has changed in this routine save adding in a purple shampoo and switching to extra hydrating conditioners.

Going grey isn’t something I agonised over. It wasn’t even a life changing or liberating event that it has been for some women.

Cut to 2020 when salons were forced to close and stylists and colourists unable to see clients for months thanks to distancing measures put in place during the pandemic. At home, women were freaking out about overgrown roots and wondering when they would get their next appointment. And then there were some women who decided that this was the best opportunity to let their greys grow out. They were taking to social media, posting about transitioning to fully grey, detailing how they agonised with the decision, the negative opinions they had faced. Their struggle and internal anguish made me feel like an imposter. I didn’t go through any of this. My greys weren’t even salt and pepper — I still have about 70 per cent black hair. And when I part my hair in the middle, sometimes you can’t even see my white hair. I just stopped dyeing my hair because I was too lazy to keep doing it. And yet here I am, a member of #greyhairmovement, a #silversister.

I recently got tagged in an Instagram Reel featuring women with grey hair and it made me feel like even more of an imposter, because unlike the other women featured in the reel, I have absolutely no advice about transitioning or how to stop dyeing your hair. Unlike some of the women who decided to embrace their greys in the pandemic or after, going grey isn’t something I agonised over. It wasn’t even a life changing or liberating event that it has been for some women.

Has not dyeing my hair freed up my time and money to do other things? Definitely. Am I happy that I may have helped inspire others to stop dyeing their hair? Maybe. Because even though I want to add something deep about being true to yourself and embracing your imperfections, the truth is if it were signs of skin ageing, I would be researching ways to combat it and getting aesthetic treatments to delay the inevitable.

I am pro-ageing gracefully. And if for some women dyeing their hair allows them that grace so be it. If I can get aesthetic treatments for my skin, they should definitely be allowed to dye their hair. However, on the flip side, if not dyeing their hair makes them feel good, then that’s what they should do. Had they not been using sunscreen and moisturiser or using the wrong shade of foundation, I might have had stronger words for them. Because after all, I am a skincare and makeup enthusiast who just happens to have grey hair.

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