When Jane Fonda stepped up to present the Best Picture Award at the Academy Awards in January, a collective gasp could be heard across the globe. Jane, an impossibly stunning 82 year old, had gone grey. Or allowed herself to be grey, or platinum, or silver, or whatever you want to call the colour of her perfect pixie cut. Likewise the equally improbably preserved Sharon Osbourne, 67, who herself traded in her magenta locks for a snowy white bob. Then there’s Keanu Reeve’s girlfriend Alexandra Grant, a mere slip of a girl at 47, who is not only age appropriate for the 55 year old Keanu, but who also sports her own natural grey hair. “Is that his mother?” demanded the Internet, unable to process a woman who would dare to wear her age like a badge of honour, instead of the horrible secret Hollywood thinks it should be.

 

I myself, as you know, have grey hair. It’s actually closer to white, and yes, it’s mostly natural, but I will admit to putting a purple toner through it now and then to keep out the yellow. I started going grey in my twenties, like my father, from whom I also inherited poor eyesight, trim ankles and a love of words. I started colouring my hair when I got engaged because, as my hair stylist told me, no one wants a grey haired bride (really?). I was a redhead for decades, spending hours and hours and thousands of dollars over the years keeping the silver at bay. At least twice I gave in, chopped it off, and bleached it out, aspiring to look edgy and dangerous. The first time I did it, John’s grandmother, who was 94, took my wrist in that fierce old lady grip that some of them have, and said “Child, what are you doing? You will be old soon enough!”

 

She of course was right, so I went back to red, then blonde, then very blonde, then bald (chemo), then blonde, then brown, and now that I am soon to be old, or at least older, I introduced myself to my real hair colour. It’s turned into a bigger act of defiance than it was in my twenties. While I regularly get compliments on it, they are usually from younger people. Women my own age or older marvel at my courage, calling me brave and fearless, which means they think I’m crazy. But it’s quite liberating, actually. I can be in and out of the hair salon in less than an hour. My hair is healthier and shinier, and if I look 10 years older than someone who dyes their hair, well guess what? Maybe I AM 10 years older than them. So what? Who cares?

 

Now don’t go thinking I’m going completely natural. I get my nails done, not to mention massages, facials, and Botox twice a year, because nothing says beauty like a face full of poison. I had my eyebrows micro-bladed. In the interest of full disclosure, I had a tummy tuck after Ronan was born. I try – God knows I try – to eat and drink sensibly, exercise and get enough sleep. I have not closed the door on cosmetic surgery, although John has threatened to leave me if I do anything permanent to my face. I have no intention of going gently into that good night, but will rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

And the dying of the hair.

 

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