
The last time I dyed my hair was October 2018.
I had no idea it would be the last time, but I was already starting to hate being a slave to the dye, resenting the need to rush and get a hairdresser appointment as soon as my greys started to show.
I felt trapped in a cycle that I never wanted to be a part of but accepted without question. There was clearly an unspoken covenant: Thou (women only) must hide thy greys, at all costs!
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I started to notice silver strands in my early twenties, but they really ramped up after having my second child within an eighteen-month period (it’s true what they say about stress and grey hair).
Colouring stopped being about fun experimentation and playing around with new looks - it became about just one thing: cover up. I had a drawer full of root powders, touch-up wands and sprays, none of which worked particularly well, and some that would trickle down my forehead on rainy or sweaty days, Rudy Giuliani style. Not a good look.
Then, a few weeks after that last hair colour appointment, my dad died. It was sudden, unexpected and shocking. I cancelled everything and barely left the house for three months. I also made a decision - I wasn’t going to dye my hair anymore. I had a number of reasons, some practical and pragmatic, some lofty with principle.