Embracing my grey hair during coronavirus isolation

In 2019, I officially went grey. On paper, 2020 couldn't be worse, right?

Obviously, it could. A global pandemic has provided some perspective to my fading follicles.

And as coronavirus has most of us self-isolating, countless more folks face the same emerging colour scheme.

(Yes, in some parts of Australia we're still technically/inexplicably allowed to hit the salon. And supermarkets are yet to see brawls over box dye. But these are tumultuous times. I'm not taking either fact for granted.)

In Canada last week, a dark-haired government minister warned constituents he'd be rapidly greying after hairdressers were ordered to shut.

Locked-down celebrities have already revealed their grey roots to millions of Instagram followers, including famous-in-the-States actor and talk show co-host Tamera Mowrey.

Worst of all, Harvard researchers this year stood up that long-held urban myth: stress really does turn hair white (at least in mice).

In short, 2020 is looking decidedly grey.

First stage: Denial

In my mid-20s I lived with my grandparents. That's when the first bright white strands arrived.

I put their appearance down to a clerical error — didn't they know the oldies were down the hall?

And I plucked them.

In the decade since, I haven't kept a tally.

But sometime last year, my tweezers and I were finally outnumbered. (Our demise aided by two small and sleep-depriving offspring, and minimal mirror time.)

The bottle beckoned, but monthly maintenance seemed a big (and expensive) commitment.

Essentially a lazy miser, I could live with my new look. But I still didn't love it.

Is anyone grey-OK?

Seeking solidarity, I googled "grey hair". Fashion headlines insisted "grey is the new black".

Spoiler alert: on-trend starlets are dyeing silver blond, and stylish octogenarians Judi Dench and Maggie Smith have grey hair. Also, George Clooney.

None of this information was reassuring to an unglamorous 37-year-old mum afraid of getting called "grandma" at the park. (COVID-19 has, at least, put this fear on the backburner — see you in a few months, parks!)

Enter Instagram and #grombre — a showcase of 100,000 smiling ladies, at every stage of salt and pepper.

The word grombre mashes up "grey" and "ombre", the latter that graduated-colour hair trend of the 2000s.

American Martha Truslow Smith coined the term in 2016 to capture the effect of letting grey hairs merge with previous colours, dyed or natural.

At 24, she had just stopped dyeing and started the @grombre Insta account as "a radical celebration of the natural phenomenon of grey hair". Now it has 180,000 followers, who enthusiastically share how they too have embraced the grey.

Buoyed by stories of money saved, friendships made and new confidence discovered, I'd definitely found my "silver sisters".

But if going grey on Instagram looked so great — why hadn't the real world caught up?

Choose life, choose grey

In her 30s and on the telly with ABC TV's The Book Club, Melbourne writer Marieke Hardy was a rare poster girl for going grey in the public eye. But the self-proclaimed "silver fox" agrees that greying ladies stare down tough social expectations.

"Because women past a certain age are considered (by society) as invisible and no longer of use, a lot of us scramble to say, 'I'm still worth something', or 'I'm still maintaining my upkeep'," she says.

Self-acceptance doesn't have to mean going grey, though — as Hardy says, there's no "right" path to making peace with your appearance.

"For me, I wax my legs but I have hairy underarms, and I've let my hair go grey, but I love red lipstick — you've just got to find your own religion!"

And for Hardy, grey hair is as much about personal growth as it is radical action.

"There's a lot of love and experience in those grey hairs, a lot of broken hearts and reckless behaviours. And I regret nothing, particularly at this point where I'm locked inside!

"People are spending a lot of time with themselves with this lockdown — it's such an amazing time to go inwards and think, 'What is my happiest version of myself?'"

The silver lining

If Hardy had asked me when those first pale strands appeared, the happiest version of my 20-something self was blissfully carefree and always in control.

Of course, the grey hairs I plucked were hinting that I might not actually be either.

Fast forward to now, and I don't need follicular proof — nothing like a global pandemic to put the brakes on youthful bravado.

I can't deny I'm getting older, or that with each passing day it becomes clear the things I used to think were in my control are not.

All I can do is decide how to respond — and kindly welcoming the newest parts of me seems like a good place to start.

Mary Bolling is a Melbourne mum and journalist. If you see her at the park, please don't assume she (or anyone) is the children's grandma.