I expected men to ignore me WHEN I WENT GREY but it was far more hurtful to find I’m INVISIBLE TO WOMEN TOO
LAST week, I was sitting in a restaurant with a friend when we noticed three bright young mums, all glossy blonde hair, at the table next to us. They were digging into large plates of delicious-looking food. I leaned over and interrupted them with what I thought was charm and humour. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, ‘but we have terrible food envy. Can I ask what you’re having?’
They looked at me as if I was something unappetising they had found on the soles of their shoes.
‘Mezze,’ said one, coldly, as she turned swiftly back to her conversation.
I had been summarily dismissed. My friend and I looked at each other in shock, before rolling our eyes and getting down to the serious business of catching up.
One of the beauties of ageing is that you don’t feel the need to react when people behave badly; you’re able to move on.
Except I found I couldn’t quite let this go. It was a real jolt. A ‘line in the sand’ moment.
Those younger women had disregarded me at first glance. I wasn’t worthy of consideration or courtesy. In short, I was old. Irrelevant.
And I was convinced it was because I had stopped dyeing my hair. My once brunette, then blonde, then (somewhat disastrously) pink hair is now its natural salt-and-pepper. Had I still had blonde highlights, our fellow diners wouldn’t have made me feel like the crazy old lady making their lives difficult.
Although I love my new silver shade — particularly the hours saved and the condition it is in (it has never looked healthier) — I am staggered by how dramatically it has aged me in the eyes of the world. And how differently women, in particular, treat me.
Frankly, at 54, I expect men to ignore me.
But I never thought I’d become invisible to women as well. No one ever warns you about that. Neither do they tell you that it’s far more devastating.
I’m not sure I ever realised how much women enjoy attracting admiring glances from our peers. I’m not sure I ever realised how much I, personally, value attention from welldressed women — particularly those several years younger.
Being dismissed like that was a slap in the face. So much for the sisterhood; it turns out that when you ditch the dye, solidarity is confined to fellow silver-haired women only.
Like many women, I found the pandemic to be disastrous for my hair. When the hairdressers closed, I attempted to bleach it myself, ignoring its ever more strawlike texture.
Then one day I woke to find half of my hair had snapped off. On one side, my hair was long; on the other, it was down to half an inch. I had a half mullet.
There was no choice — I had the whole lot cut off. I was left feeling like a boy. It was awful. Not that short hair on women is inherently bad, but it was terrible for me. I felt like Samson: all of my confidence was in my hair, and I hated losing it.
All my life, I’d been known for my lovely thick hair. Naturally curly (although regularly straightened these days), strangers have often stopped to compliment me on it. So it was a big loss.
It took almost two years to grow out — without a drop of bleach, dye or anything else on it. I decided to finally embrace my natural colour and see how it felt.
It helped that, mid-pandemic, women all over the world seemed to be doing the same thing. There were movements online, with thousands of social media accounts featuring beautiful women proudly letting their hair turn grey. They called themselves ‘silver sisters’. I decided it was time to join their ranks.
I loved the camaraderie I felt when I walked into a shop to find another woman growing out her hair, both of us immediately striking up a conversation about how freeing it was.
My husband hates artifice of any kind so he loved this more natural look. My children were suspicious at first, but as it grew out, they all admitted that it suited me.
My friends loved it, too — and even though I would have preferred it to grow white like my mother’s, I was pleased with how healthy it looked.
But as the months went by, I noticed that not everyone was so enamoured.
The first time I realised I was invisible was in a trendy restaurant, full of glamorous thirtysomethings. No one was rude to me exactly, it was just that they didn’t bat so much as an eyelid at me.
Before, I would still get . . . well, checked out. Younger women would look me over appreciatively and assess what I was wearing in the way women so often do. Now, no matter my make-up or outfit choices, I might as well be wearing Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak.
Perhaps I noticed it more because my formerly sleepy town has had a huge influx of bright young things moving in recently.
So many young families fled the city during the pandemic. Babies needed gardens and their parents, now working from home, needed more space.
Our main street, once half-dead with empty shops, is now bustling with groups of yummy mummies pushing babies in buggies.
I didn’t feel old until these women came to town. I never thought much about my age, and whenever I did get chatting to a young mum, I didn’t feel a cavernous gulf between us.
Granted, my children are all at university while these mums are still
No one was rude, they just didn’t bat an eyelid
It’s even more radical than my pink hair
having babies, but I assumed we were on the same wavelength; we understood one another. When I had the requisite blonde highlights, they would play along.
Not so now I’m grey. As much as I love it, I can’t deny how tempted I am to colour my hair again whenever I am dismissed or ignored by younger women.
But then I remember the strawlike texture and the vast amounts of money wasted . . .
Other silver sisters have had much the same experience. I’ve also discussed it with friends who still pay fortunes for highlights. ‘You think you’re invisible now?’ they laugh. ‘Wait until you turn 60!’
They, too, agree that losing the male gaze isn’t what really hurts about ageing. Yes, I admit, when I was younger, I did dress to impress men. But at this stage of life, we are dressing for the appreciation of other women.
Nothing delights my group of female friends more than getting dolled up for a girls’ night out. We make the effort for one another.
Who better to appreciate that great pair of earrings you just bought, or the vintage coat you scored unexpectedly on a trip?
As a novelist, I am fascinated by women in particular; by how they think, what their emotional lives are, what they are wearing. I could sit in a corner of a restaurant alone and amuse myself for hours, peoplewatching. I used to like the fact that I was also a subject for other people-watchers.
My snakeskin boots often got compliments when I went out. The fabulous poncho that makes me feel like a rodeo queen was commented on everywhere I went. The Moroccan kaftan that swept me to more exotic places was praised whenever I wore it.
These days, the whole lot may as
well be cloaked in black bin liners for the lack of impact they make.
I will say my clothing is not for everyone. A few years ago, when my hair was pink, I was at a concert (British new wave) in my usual outfit of animal-print flares, furry clogs and a checked jacket. A group of women my age drunkenly swarmed around me. ‘We love your costume!’ they cried in delight. I didn’t have the heart to tell them it wasn’t a costume. But I was delighted that they at least saw me, that I was worthy of note.
It had taken me a long while to establish my sense of style. I’d spent most of my life trying to fit in. If floral maxi dresses were all the rage, that’s what you’d find me in.
I once went to a party where all the women — including me — were in floral maxi dresses and denim jackets. It was like a school uniform.
It was only when I turned 50 that I decided to experiment sartorially. I found myself gravitating towards my more art school, bohemian roots. I fell head over heels in love with Morocco and its kaftans and abayas, and developed a deep passion for the looks of the late 1960s and 1970s.
I no longer wanted to look like everyone else. I embraced my uniqueness, rather than trying to fit this square peg into a round hole. I finally figured out my own style, instead of attempting to follow the crowd, or fashion. Sporting pink hair for a couple of years was great — a true rebellion against the norm — but the truth is I am too low-maintenance to keep it up.
I hadn’t realised that letting it go grey would prove to be even more radical.
However much I may love it, however much it may suit me, there is no denying how ageing it is.
And this despite my cool outfits, my, ahem, fashion-forward sense of style. Younger women don’t notice the clothes, they notice the hair — and once they see the grey,
I do care when I feel irrelevant and, sadly, old
everything about me fades into the background.
Although I like to think that I no longer care what people think of me, I’ve discovered that I do care when people don’t think of me at all. When I feel irrelevant, invisible and, sadly, old.
I don’t know what the answer is. I do know that there is clearly still work to be done on my journey of self-acceptance.
I also know that I don’t want to dye my hair, even though it would shave years off me.
Instead, I’m working on embracing myself as a silver sister. I want to feel secure enough in my skin that I no longer need the admiration of the female gaze.
I want to believe that I am just fine exactly the way I am, silver strands and all. Regardless of who does — or doesn’t — notice me.