My Grey Area

In the last few weeks, I’ve been stressed. Mark and I bought a house, and the thought of renovations, moving, and mortgage rates have spun me in circles. We're entering a new life stage, and I'm not sure how to know if we're ready for it. 

On Saturday I wrestled with my hair before going to a friend's. I was annoyed at myself for, once again, pushing an extra day without washing it. The only solution was to slick it back into a bun.

In the mirror, a glint of something unfamiliar caught my eye. A strand of white flashed through the plastic comb teeth. It was taunting, beautiful, and fleeting. I spent long minutes digging around my scalp to see the flicker again. I was chasing tinsel in a pile of brown string.

Eventually, I located the offender. It was hidden in my cowlick, creating a mini rebellion against my crown. Pure silver has never seemed less valuable. I plucked it without a second thought.

Away from the brunette backdrop, the hair transformed from a twinkling metal thread to fishing wire. The white tip was coarse, curly, and entirely foreign from the rest of my tresses.

The end, however, was recognizably me. The hair faded into brown like it had been dipped in chocolate. It was almost as though I could find the exact moment it had transformed into something new. I could see the intersection between my younger and older selves.

This one hair shows the gradient of my aging.

Recently, my life has seen a lot of changes. Since 2020 I’ve switched jobs four times, published my first book, got married, and - as of a couple of weeks ago- bought a house. It feels impossible that I'm the same person who started this blog almost three years ago. 

The last time I wrote about ageing I was grappling with the gap created in your twenties. You know, the forks in the road that lead some friends to become parents while others are puking at the brunch table. It’s a strange era where it feels like your circle chooses sides. Shots or strollers. 

My peers and I started dividing from the isolation of lockdown.

Entering the pandemic, I was lost. I was just starting my career, still learning the city, and unsure of what would come next. I often said I wanted to be a writer without bothering to actually write. My sense of the future was more a pipe dream than a plan. 

Now I’m the spokesperson for agendas. I’ve regimented my days, maintain early bedtimes, and converted from booze hound to a gym rat. What emerged out of COVID is, sometimes, unrecognizable from the person that went in.

My life has more direction, but it also sometimes feels like a charade. In what world could I be prepping to move into my family home? How, exactly, does someone trust me with an “executive” title at work?

With each step forward, my imposter syndrome has levelled up, too.

Coming out of quarantine like…

Staring at my first grey hair was oddly validating. Despite thinking I’m too young, too inexperienced, or too naive to be embarking on this new life stage (home ownership, yikes!), my body is acknowledging that I’ve aged. 

Surely anyone who has greys is old enough to pay a mortgage.

I was compelled to keep it. I pretended it wasn’t weird while I shoved the Ziploc under the sink. I just couldn't bring myself to throw it away. How often can you see your present and future in physical representation? 

There are moments when I’ve felt older. My knee pops, my eyes crinkle, and there’s a nagging knot in my neck that is slowly becoming part of my anatomy. I can’t remember the last time I went anywhere happily after 10 pm. There’s a stark contrast between me and the college students I pass on the streets of Toronto, but it’s not always as obvious as grey hair. It's something much less tangible. 

I can't capture my shifting priorities and lived experience in a plastic baggy.

This hair, then, is the solid line. It is the tiniest thread that proves I have actually distanced myself from who I used to be in my early twenties. It is a real, physical signifier that I have grown. That I'm ready for what's next. 

Honestly, I find that comforting.

On the flip side, there is a genuine concern about what follows. Grey hairs are a hydra: you cut off one only to have two grow back. Soon, I won’t be able to keep up with them. Soon, this won't be special at all.

This is just the first step into my next stage of life.

I remember a time when hair didn't grow on my legs. Shaving felt like something I’d never need to care about. The pesky whisker on my chin was something I thought old ladies made up to scare younger women. I didn't think it would happen to me. But it has. And it continues to.

My hair, it seems, knows me better than I do.

It's telling me I'm ready to take this next step, and I'm choosing to believe it. No grey area, just grey hairs.