To dye or not to dye. That was the question that plagued me as I approached the naughty forties. It is an agonising question with no correct answers. You are damned if you do and damned if you don’t — because if you start dyeing your hair it is an ongoing and relentless task for the rest of your life, and it is even more difficult to stop dyeing.
It all started with the shock of sighting the very first grey hair, followed by a frantic search to see if there were any more nestling around. The first one is easily pulled out by the root. But that is only the beginning. Soon after, there is a second and a third, which also meet the same fate. The trouble begins when a little colony of grey hair crops up demanding attention. I tried changing my hairstyle, combing the hair in a different way to hide the salt under the pepper, and tucking them inside. But you can fool yourself, not the world.
The study begins
That is when I began a serious study of the plethora of brands and colours on offer on the cosmetics shelves. It only resulted in more confusion and nervousness. In dire need of expert advice, I began my visits to the beauty parlour. Where of course one gets trapped because the whole purpose of a beauty parlour is to entice people to empty their purses to dye, streak, crimp, straighten, perm or curl their hair – in fact, do anything but leave it in its natural state. So curly hair is straightened and straight hair is curled. Glossy, colourful brochures of actors and models would lull the most practical person into taking the plunge.
The first time was almost like the first glass of hard liquor, the first smoke or the first kiss – furtive, with a mix of anxiety and excitement, and once done, a feeling of achievement tinged with doubt.
The chemicals in the dye gave my hair extra volume, a lustre and sheen that were missing earlier. My hair bounced with every step and I felt glamorous and beautiful. A few compliments from family and friends, or comments such as ‘you look different’ were incentive enough to dye again. Very soon it became addictive; a compulsion to touch up the tenacious white roots that kept pushing out of the scalp; a routine in the beauty regimen that most women consider essential.
The years rolled by as laughter lines, crow’s feet and fine wrinkles crept in, but the hair remained a glossy brown/black. By the fifties and sixties most men call it a day because they have not much hair or no hair at all to dye but women continue to have a good head of hair that makes them look ten years younger – as long as they keep dyeing. And as in the case of liquor or smoking it is very difficult to stop dyeing. By the seventies the face looks older and more tired, framed by very obviously frequently dyed hair – a total mismatch.
Then begins the dilemma: how does one stop dyeing without looking like a raccoon?
I studied various options and discarded each and every one of them as being unsuitable. One tempting option was to go in for a complete tonsure and let the fresh growth take over. Strong family opposition put paid to that. Ultimately, the best thing to do was to run away and hide – in the United States for six months where one could sport any hairstyle or colour without attracting the least attention.
When I came back I had two wings of silver that took people by surprise but I was greeted with compliments. The silver accentuated my eyes and made the face look brighter. I felt more comfortable without the foul-smelling chemical on my head, and the silver had a natural shimmer.
But best of all, I found that suddenly people opened doors, pulled out chairs, carried my parcels and even gave up their seats! At airports people helped lift my bags and I was waved on ahead in queues. There was more friendliness and patience all around. I got new-found respect as I moved from being an auntie to amma (fortunately not paatti, or grandma, yet) or ma’am. I had found the silver lining in my silver years.
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