Going Gray
Can you call yourself a feminist if the main reason you’re letting your hair go gray is because your husband says it’s okay to do so?
In the bright lights of her bathroom, the type that highlights every line, wrinkle, and spot on your face to remind you of every experience you’ve lived through or living in, she leaned towards the mirror to take in the full gravity of her regrowth.
It was over an inch long now. And it was whiter than previously thought. Today was a bad day. Today she thought she looked like a woman too busy or too careless to look after herself. Today she wanted to color it again. Today, she opened her bathroom cupboard under her small sink and gently reached for her makeup bag.
Resting it on the side of the sink, she dug into her toolbox as she felt she had to fix her face, as she couldn’t fix her hair. It was 7:45AM and she had to leave for work shortly. Even if she were to give in, or give up, and use the home hair color kit sitting in her cupboard, taunting her that she was a fool to believe she was the kind of woman strong enough to buck societal norms, she didn’t have the one and a half hours it would take to complete the task.
One and a half hours, every month. While it didn’t sound like much time, she considered as she pulled out her concealer, it was also time back to do other things, anything. While plenty of women enjoyed the experience and took that time for themselves, she always felt it a chore and would have preferred to be doing something else. So, this newfound wealth of time was one of the benefits of her choice.
However, today she needed to feel better about her choice. She undid the lid of her concealer and gently applied to the soft skin under her eyes, being ever so careful to not be too heavy-handed. She took out her foundation and quickly covered her face with a light layer of liquid that removed the past. She applied dark green shadow that she had recently purchased from Sephora to her eyelids, and ensured her lashes were thick and long with waterproof mascara. Her cheeks were made rosy and her lips were subtly colored in. Lastly, she took to her eyebrows. She did not draw them bushy and big, while she appreciated that it was indeed the trend of the times, she also remembered the last time it was a trend. She was happy to keep her brows shaped with a thin, but not too like you had overplucked in your early twenties, line with a soft peek.
She put away her bag of tricks and took another look in the mirror. My eyebrows look good, she thought. Distracts from the gray just mere inches above.
She grabbed her hair brush and swept her hair into a no-fuss ponytail. It was easier to hide the gray when the states were separated. She considered using the can of colored hairspray that promised to cover the truth. But she was the kind of woman that would at some point forget it was in her hair, run her hands through it, and be left with stained fingers and a reminder that she was no longer a natural brunette.
After another glance in the mirror, she opened the door to reveal six different perfume bottles and faced her next decision, what scent matched her mood today? Did she want to be playful, powerful, or seductive? She smiled at how much smells play into our subconscious. The memories they elicit, the feelings they evoke, the physical reactions we can have. Today, she wanted to feel youthful and grabbed a bottle of Couture Couture. She sprayed it lightly around the sides of her neck, being careful not to spray her decalage for fear of dehydration that would lead to her chest looking like an old leather bag one day. And layered a generous amount on one wrist, using her other wrist to dab and not wipe. She replaced the bottle in the line up and was now ready to go. She took one last look in the mirror and considered herself for a moment. Her make up was not so heavy that it would last more than a day, however enough to make her feel comfortable in her own skin for the next few hours. Until she had forgotten she felt uncomfortable about herself this morning, and she had spent time immersed in this magical place called New York City, and its inhabitants who never ceased to amaze her.
She walked out of their bathroom, and through the living room filled with plants she was somehow managing to keep alive. She had to give credit to her husband, as she was sure he was secretly watering them when she forgot. She kept her every-day handbag on a small seat next to the television, although it was probably better to find a more appropriate location to keep the aesthetic of the room clutter-free. But we are creatures of habit and it was the easiest spot she threw it down upon when she walked into the apartment.
Grabbing her keys from the plate on the tiny side table by the front door, she dropped them in her handbook as she reached for the handle. As she stepped outside the apartment, there was a slight shift in temperature. The building was old and large, and it was also just a little cooler in the hallway than it was in their apartment. It was a reprieve before stepping outside into the August heat in New York City.
She walked down the three flights of stairs from their fourth-floor walkup. And took five steps to open the front door to all that awaited her outside.
As soon as she opened the door, the humidity hit her like a wet towel. It immediately felt like her makeup was running down her face. As she put her arm to chest to feel for the perspiration waiting to make its debut, she watched a woman in her 80s, dressed in what one could only assume was a summer nightgown holding a battery powered mini fan that blew her bright blue hair away from her face, walk past her building. She was holding a Fairway’s shopping bag with an exposed baguette stick. She smiled and was reminded that in NYC, no one really cared whether she was wearing makeup today or not. And frankly, anyone who didn’t look like they’d stepped out of a Footloose dance rehearsal right now should be studied by scientists to understand how their bodies were somehow immune to the grotesque air that was bringing them all to their knees. She knew her eyelashes were at least safe, and continued down the steps that took her to the sidewalk on West 74th Street.
As she continued to pass by neighbors and visitors in her neighborhood en route to the subway, she took more time to really look at the characters that surrounded her every day. Since the pandemic, she had noticed a lot more women were taking their beauty back and determining for themselves what was and was not appropriate for a woman’s appearance. More women wore less makeup. More women demanded less judgment. More women gave less shits.
But doesn’t being a feminist mean we can wear makeup and cover up our grays if we so choose? Yes, of course. But she wondered why women choose their choices in the first place. Did we choose because we had a choice, or was free will a fantasy. She smiled as she was reminded of her husband who had much to say about free will and that we indeed have none. Maybe he was right. Her decision to go gray had not become a real consideration until the pandemic had robbed us of our beauty regimes and forced husbands and roommates around the globe to become apprentice hairdressers and beauticians. Or worse, left us without any option than to let nature take its course.
But as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, women everywhere started to embrace this new found freedom. And more importantly, women started to support other women’s new found freedom. Friends supported and encouraged their friends who decided to go gray or to stop wearing make-up. And women watched their counterparts strut with confidence down the street, empowering them to decide what they considered beauty to be.
She took a right at Fairways, onto Broadway. She saw the gentleman that always stood by the door, politely asking shoppers for money and food, and handed him a dollar bill. He smiled and thanked her and she smiled back.
She walked past their fruit stalls, and their flower market on the corner of 73rd, crossing over and dodging a elderly gentleman pulling a shopping trolley in the middle of the road, oblivious to anyone around him. She hurried past her local Sephora and stole a glance at the windows to see what product they were promoting today. The crosswalk at 72rd turned white, so she picked up her pace so she could pass by other commuters also heading for the 1, 2, or 3 line. As she crossed over, she took in the original subway station house that was still standing. She never tired of it. It was opened in 1904 and was one of the first 28 stations of the New York City subway.
She ran her metro card through the silver card reader and the turnstile spun as she used her legs to push through it. One of the rules of riding the subway, never touch anything with your hands. As she descended down the stairs to the platform to wait for the express train, whichever was to come first as she would be transferring at Times Square, she saw a woman further along the growing-out-the-gray process than she. She too had it pulled her hair away from her face, however it hung in a loose bun and the many inches of gray were on full display. They looked as if they were reaching out, seemingly desperate to make it to the ends.
She took in this woman who looked so comfortable in her skin. She admired the colors that flowed through her straight hair, and how pretty it truly looked. She wondered, is this what her husband sees when he looks at her? And what other women feel when they see she has joined the silver army, defending women’s choice.
She felt this brief interaction lift her spirits and she ran her hand over the stray short hairs that had sprung from her pony thanks to the humidity. She pointlessly tried to flatten them, knowing nature had other plans. As the 2 pulled up and opened its door, she stepped all the way into the middle of the car to give everyone else room to step inside. The doors closed and the train pulled away from the platform. Into the tunnel, south-bound, she caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the window. She smiled at what she saw. Today, she decided, was going to be a good day.
The End.
