Even at the tender age of 26, I’ve stumbled upon a few life truths that I hold dear:
- There might not be a higher power, but whoever invented Netflix deserves all the praise in the world.
- Cheetos may stain your fingers and draw judgment, but they are undeniably delicious—totally worth the risk.
- Sleeping on anger only fuels it for the next day.
- As I grow older, I’ve decided to embrace my gray hair.
Wait a minute—when I say “growing older,” I’m not just talking about the distant future. My hair is already making its way to silver status (I currently sport a charming streak). My days of being a dark-haired gal are numbered, and I anticipate the full salt-and-pepper transformation with excitement rather than dread.
Years ago, a remarkable man named Diego—who I still believe was a mythical hair sage—prepared me for my early grays. I first met Diego at 14, when I was desperate to tame my wild, ethnic curls. Back then, curly-haired girls had two options: chemically straighten our hair or endure the highly gelled, wet look of the early 2000s—think of a young Justin Timberlake or Felicity’s infamous hairstyle.
I opted for the straightening route, and my hair, much like its origins, resisted fiercely. Most days, I looked like I’d just survived an electrical storm. My mother, concerned for my safety with heated tools, scheduled an appointment at a fancy salon that specialized in curly hair.
Enter Diego.
Diego’s salon was the most luxurious place I had ever set foot in. I was handed a mocktail and draped in a silk robe, getting ready for a hair wash and a head massage—yes, a head massage! It was a day to remember until the stylist washing my hair gasped in horror, pulling out a strand and gathering the entire team to gawk at my first gray hair.
The salon buzzed with chatter about what to do, but Diego swiftly dismissed their concerns. Returning from a smoke break, he declared, “Promise me you won’t ever dye that! You’ve earned it.”
Let’s pause to talk about Diego. He was the epitome of cool: bald, flamboyant, and always dressed in leather. He was my personal James Dean of the 2000s. I made him a promise, albeit with some doubt about ever allowing my hair to go gray.
In the years since that moment, I’ve learned a lot about self-acceptance (with the exception of my undying love for Destiny’s Child, which is non-negotiable). I’ve come to realize that being true to myself is the most beautiful thing I can be.
Though I’ve faced challenges and gained a few extra pounds along the way, I now understand that I’ve earned the right to embrace my early grays. I look at my hair, which is aging alongside me, and smile at the journey. I plan to honor Diego’s promise; if I approach my gray hair with confidence, the world will recognize my strength. If not, well, the world can just take a hike.
Of course, not everyone feels the same way about their appearance, and I wholeheartedly respect a woman’s choice regarding her body. As a proud Third Wave feminist, I choose what to do with mine: I keep my legs and armpits groomed as I see fit and enjoy a good face of makeup when the mood strikes. I also support those who opt for cosmetic surgery or hair color for whatever reason they choose.
However, I firmly believe that celebrating our natural selves is a challenge that grows as we resist it. So, I’m making a solemn vow to let my hair go gray. I might occasionally dabble in fun colors, just to see what they look like, but I’m ready to embrace this journey. Bring it on, gray!
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Summary
At 26, I’ve decided to embrace my graying hair, reflecting on past experiences that shaped my self-acceptance. Inspired by Diego, my hair guru, I plan to uphold my promise to cherish my natural beauty. While respecting everyone’s choices about their appearance, I invite others to consider the challenge of celebrating authenticity in a world that often encourages conformity.