I’m ditching the hair dye

In the final days of level 3, something clicked in the old grey matter and I decided to stop colouring my hair.

It’s been on my mind for a while: last year I met up with my friend Fran and was struck by her glorious salt-and-pepper mane. A year older than me, she seemed to wear her age lightly. It felt kind, and rebellious – I wanted that too.

But I was whakama¯ . When the grey hair concealment project began almost a decade ago, I mixed up three supermarket shades and got to it in the bathroom. ‘‘It looks just the same,’’ said my husband. Perfect. Not like that toe-curling high school incident with a 99c bottle of ‘‘auburn’’ dye from Deka – you could spot my too-bright copper barnet for miles.

At first, I would feel restored by my secret actions: back to what I thought I looked like. Then silver started sprouting – not much, but enough to make me wonder who I was kidding.

My stockpile of colourants ran out in February, so the greys were already lengthening as lockdown began. As level 4 wore on, women on TV joked about contactless mercy drops of highlighting kits from their stylists. During one team video call, there was an earnest discussion about dyeing. My Twitter feed quietly bristled with anxiety over roots.

For most of lockdown, my ’do was swept up in a clip and ignored: a mousey, gingery, silvery mop. I have a hair appointment next week and, breaking the pattern of years, I won’t colour it the night before. Already it’s a new kind of freedom.