There’s nothing new about young women touting aqua, fuchsia, or magenta hair. It’s the varying shades of gray I’ve been noticing lately. The blue rinse that’s often seen on little old ladies looks awesome on millennials.

I’ve earned my silvery mane, but its presence is a product of my illness. I stopped coloring it different shades of red and strawberry blonde when I was diagnosed with Aplastic Anemia, a rare bone marrow failure disorder. As my body was rebooting from chemotherapy, my white blood cells at ground zero, I couldn’t risk being exposed to the germs at a hair salon. My AA may have been caused by something environmental, or a virus, we’ll never know for sure.

With this mystery, I became wary of toxins and thought it would be a good time to go au naturel with my tresses. It felt necessary and rebellious. The weaning process is an adventure in humility, unpleasant roots drawing attention. Everyone knows what you’re up to, or thinks you’re a procrastinator.

Stopping the dye took one chemical reaction out of the equation, but no one wants to be called “grandma” before their time. It’s happened to me – once on an airplane by an old Eastern European woman when my son was small, but that was when I still dyed my hair. I was a 47-year-old mom with a newborn. That’s not so far from the Guinness Book record.

Since going gray, I’ve been questioned at the nail salon by a young manicurist, by the checkout gal at Trader Joe’s, and got a “granny” shout out at my 14-year-old meditation student’s “Special Friends and Grandparents Day.” Gray hair and grandmas go hand in hand.

My long-time hair stylist, Jim, gently nudged me toward dyes decades ago. It started with highlights – the gateway drug. Apparently, he felt we were intimate enough, having offered to be my sperm donor, but only if I’d have sex with him. I declined. Jim pointed out the pubey strands sprouting from my head, whispering as if they were protruding from my panties. I listened, and started plunking down the couple hundred bucks a month that hair color up-keep requires. When the highlights could no longer battle the incoming pigment-free tresses, my colorist – yes, I got a colorist – got me hooked on a multitude of scarlet shades.

I am the product of a Peroxide Mom. My 93-year-old mother is called “Yellow Nana” by her great grandkids in honor of its hue. In 2006, I made a film about the coif for her 80th birthday. It was a loving tribute, her hairdo known as much for its shape as its color. A beehive/George Washington on the dollar bill mash-up is her signature look, and she’ll never change it.

Though she’d be a silver fox, I admire my mother for her stand-up defense of that lemony helmet. She goes to the Beauty Parlor every Thursday to have her waist-long locks shampooed, unable or unwilling to manage it herself. She comes straight home afterwards, pulls out the dozens of bobby pins required to support it, and restyles it in a three-way mirror. If I lived closer to my salon, I’d come home and fix mine too. I resemble a Beverly Hills housewife when Jim’s finished with the blow dryer.

Last week, I saw a twenty-something at the gym sporting a swept back ponytail of gray with just a touch of aubergine. It was gorgeous. Her locks reminded me of early 80’s punk. If I’d had my camera, I’d have asked her to pose for me and she’d probably have declined in a badass way.

My young dental hygienist has a similar pearly shade. When I commented on it she replied, “Yeah, I get a lot of compliments. It balances out my folks’ hatred of it.” Rebellious.

I stand with those that go gray at age 20, 40, 60 or way past 80. Some choose it and purposely make it happen, pissing off parents. Others never dyed it and never questioned.

I don’t think my hair has aged me all that much. It’s an opportunity to be proud of life experience and wisdom. I haven’t accomplished all I set out to do, but I’m not dead yet. My survival is a constant reminder of circumstance. We all have second chances, third chances, fourth, fifth chances. The only limitation is ourselves.

Going Gray