JANE GREEN finally went au naturel with her hair… but was shocked by the reaction of females

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Last week I was in a restaurant with a friend when we saw three bright young mothers, all shiny blond hair, at the table next to us. They were digging into big plates of delicious looking food.

I bent over and interrupted them with what I thought was charm and humor. “I’m so sorry,” I said, “but we’re terribly jealous of food. May I ask what you eat?’

They looked at me as if I was something distasteful they’d found on the soles of their shoes.

“Mezze,” one said coolly, quickly returning to her conversation.

I was fired on the spot. My friend and I looked at each other in shock before rolling our eyes and getting into the serious business of overtaking.

One of the great things about getting older is that you don’t feel the need to react when people behave badly; you can continue.

Only I noticed that I couldn’t let this go completely. It was a real shock. A ‘line in the sand’ moment. Those younger women had ignored me at first glance. I was not 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. If I still had blonde highlights, our fellow diners wouldn’t have made me feel like the crazy old lady is making their lives difficult.

Honestly, at 54, I expect men to ignore me.  But I never thought that I would also become invisible to women

Honestly, at 54, I expect men to ignore me. But I never thought that I would also become invisible to women

While I love my new silver hue — especially the hours saved and the condition it’s in (it’s never looked so healthy) — I’m amazed at how dramatically it has aged me in the eyes of the world. And how differently especially women treat me.

Honestly, at 54, I expect men to ignore me. But I never thought that I would also become invisible to women. No one ever warns you about that. They also don’t tell you it’s much more devastating.

I’m not sure I ever realized how much women enjoy attracting admiring glances from our peers. I’m not sure I ever realized how much I personally appreciate the attention of well-dressed women, especially women several years younger.

Being fired like that was a slap in the face. So much for the sisterhood; it turns out that when you throw away the dye, solidarity is limited to fellow silver-haired women.

Like many women, I found the pandemic disastrous for my hair. When the barbers closed, I tried to bleach it myself, ignoring its increasingly straw-like texture.

One day I woke up to find that half of my hair had broken off. On the one hand, my hair was long; on the other hand it was only half an inch. I had half a mullet.

There was no choice – I had cut the whole lot. I was left as a boy. It was horrible. Not that short hair on women is inherently bad, but it was terrible for me. I felt like Samson: all my confidence was in my hair and I hated to lose it.

Like many women, I found the pandemic disastrous for my hair.  When the barbers closed, I tried to bleach it myself, ignoring the increasingly straw-like texture (Pictured at age 50)

Like many women, I found the pandemic disastrous for my hair.  When the barbers closed, I tried to bleach it myself, ignoring the increasingly straw-like texture (Pictured at age 50)

Like many women, I found the pandemic disastrous for my hair. When the barbers closed, I tried to bleach it myself, ignoring the increasingly straw-like texture (Pictured at age 50)

All my life I was known for my beautiful thick hair. Naturally curly (though 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 finally decided to embrace my natural color and see how it felt.

It helped that women all over the world seemed to be doing the same during the pandemic. There were movements online, with thousands of social media accounts featuring beautiful women proudly letting their hair go gray. 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 store and found another woman growing her hair, and we both immediately struck up a conversation about how liberating it was.

My husband hates artifice of any kind, so he loved this more natural look. My kids were suspicious at first, but when it grew up, they all admitted it suited me.

My friends loved it too – and while I would have preferred it turned white like my mom’s, I was happy with how healthy it looked.

But as the months went by, I noticed that not everyone was so enamored.

The first time I realized I was invisible was in a trendy restaurant full of glamorous thirty-somethings. No one was exactly rude to me, it was just that they didn’t even blink an eyelid at me.

I used to still get . . . good, checked out. Younger women would look at me appreciatively and judge what I was wearing, as women so often do. Now, whatever my makeup or outfit choices, I might as well be wearing Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak.

I may have noticed it more because my formerly sleepy town has had a huge influx of smart young things lately.

So many young families fled the city during the pandemic. Babies needed gardens and their parents, who now worked from home, needed more space.

Our main street, once half-dead with empty shops, now bustles with groups of tasty mummies pushing babies into buggies.

I didn’t feel old until these women came to town. I never thought much about my age, and when I was chatting with a young mother, I didn’t feel a hollow gulf between us.

Losing the masculine gaze isn't what really hurts about getting older.  Yes, I admit, when I was younger I used to dress to impress men.  But at this stage of life we ​​dress for the appreciation of other women

Losing the masculine gaze isn't what really hurts about getting older.  Yes, I admit, when I was younger I used to dress to impress men.  But at this stage of life we ​​dress for the appreciation of other women

Losing the masculine gaze isn’t what really hurts about getting older. Yes, I admit, when I was younger I used to dress to impress men. But at this stage of life we ​​dress for the appreciation of other women

Granted, my kids are all in college while these moms are still having babies, but I assumed we were on the same page; we understood each other. If I had the required blonde highlights, they played along.

Not so now I’m gray. As much as I love it, I can’t deny how tempted I am to recolor my hair when I’m rejected or ignored by younger women.

But then I remember the straw-like texture and the huge 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. “Do you think you’re invisible now?” they laugh. “Wait until you turn 60!”

They too agree that losing the masculine gaze doesn’t really hurt getting older. Yes, I admit, when I was younger I used to dress to impress men. But at this stage of life, we dress for the appreciation of other women.

Nothing delights my group of female friends more than getting dressed up for a girls night out. We make the effort for each other.

Who better to appreciate that great pair of earrings you just bought, or the vintage coat you unexpectedly picked up on a trip?

As a novelist I am particularly fascinated by women; by how they think, what their emotional life is, what they wear. I could sit alone in a corner of a restaurant and amuse myself for hours, people watching. I used to like that I was also a subject for other people watching people.

My snakeskin boots were often complimented when I went out. The fabulous poncho that makes me feel like a rodeo queen was commented on everywhere. The Moroccan caftan that took me to more exotic places was praised when I wore it.

These days, the whole thing might as well be shrouded in black garbage bags because they have no impact.

I will say that my clothes are 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 torches, furry clogs and a checked jacket. A group of women my age swarmed drunkenly around me. “We love your costume!” they cried with delight. I didn’t have the heart to tell them it wasn’t a costume. But I was glad they at least saw me, that I was worth noting.

It took me a long time to get my sense of style.  I had spent most of my life trying to fit in

It took me a long time to get my sense of style.  I had spent most of my life trying to fit in

It took me a long time to get my sense of style. I had spent most of my life trying to fit in

It took me a long time to get my sense of style. I’d spent most of my life trying to fit in. If floral maxi dresses were all the rage, you’d find me in it. 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 wasn’t until I turned 50 that I decided to experiment cross-legged. I found myself drawn to my more art school, bohemian roots. I fell head over heels in love with Morocco and its caftans and abayas, and developed a deep passion for the looks of the late 1960s and 1970s.

I didn’t want to look like everyone else. I embraced my uniqueness, rather than trying to fit this square peg into a round hole. I’ve finally come up with my own style, instead of trying to follow the crowd or fashion. Wearing pink hair for a few years was great – a real rebellion against the norm – but the truth is I’m too low maintenance to keep it up.

I hadn’t realized it would be even more radical to let it go gray.

As much as I love it, as much as it suits me, there’s no denying how old 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 as soon as they see the gray, everything about me fades into the background.

While I like to think I don’t care what people think of me anymore, I’ve found that I do care if people don’t think about 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 if I shave years of it.

Instead, I’m embracing myself like a silver sister. I want to feel safe enough in my own skin that I no longer need the admiration of the feminine gaze.

I want to believe I’m all right, just the way I am, with silver strands and everything. Regardless of who notices me or not.