Two Decades of Grey: The Everyday

When I last blogged about my hair, I ended up writing this post. When I wrote it, it felt unfinished in a way. Yes, I had stopped coloring my hair. My natural hair color, pigmented or not, was growing out, and this was going to be how the rest of my life went with hair color. Sometimes I'd think about coloring it for fun. Sometimes I'd think about adding some highlights. But I never ended up doing anything.

In November of 2024, I cut my hair. I do normally cut it a few times a year, but this cut was special. This haircut was when I cut off the rest of my colored hair. I colored my hair for the last time in December 2022. It kept growing, and two years later, the remaining roots which were colored back in 2022 were cut off. For the first time in my life since I was 16 years old, I had completely virgin hair. 

Every day is a new challenge when it comes to living with my premature greys. Some days, I'll look in the mirror and think to myself, "Hey, it doesn't look so bad today" as if I could convince myself I had less grey hairs on my head than I did the day before. Other days, I'll look in the mirror and want to start pulling them all out one by one because they look like they've taken over my entire head. And still, there are other days when I look in the mirror, see all my greys, and tell myself, "They look okay today."

As I've gotten older, my need to please others has gone down. I don't hang my value and worth on what everyone else says. There's still areas where I struggle with this, but when it comes to my hair, I've learned to put the comments aside. Over the last year, multiple people have made comments about noticing my greys. Some of them are shocked because as far as they can tell, it looks like I went from zero to grey in a few years. Little do they know I was hiding them for so many years already and this is merely just letting the facade fall. 

My youngest is in kindergarten this year. The year I was in kindergarten was when a poignant comment about my mother's hair stayed with me forever. I had children almost 10 years earlier than my mother did. I am still younger than my mother was when I was born. By the time I'm as old as my mother was when I was in kindergarten, I will probably have the same amount of greys as she did. I think I'm luckier in some ways. Society now is much kinder regarding beauty, signs of "aging," and self-image. It's refreshing for me as a parent to see other parents and staff at my child's school embracing their natural hair color.  And yes - there are still the parents who are 1000% put together and could be ready for a photo shoot at any minute. 

I have one box of hair color sitting in the closet at home. Yes, it's nearly 3 years old. Someone out there is probably face-palming and secretly yelling at me to throw it away.  Some days, I want to use it. I want to color my hair back to a uniform sea of black. I want to complete the picture of youthfulness nature took away from me naturally. But then, I'm reminded of how difficult these 3 years were to get through, growing my hair, leaving it uncolored, and wanting myself to be comfortable with myself. So I push through another day and don't look back.

Two Decades of Grey: Here and Now

I took my kids to a dairy camp hosted by Tillamook at a local venue near us recently. The first time I saw it, the free tickets had sold out. Then, I saw the ad again and was able to book my kids and I free tickets. I didn't know what to expect going into the dairy camp because it was only slotted for 30 minutes. Not sure what was going to happen that was so spectacular in a half hour, but I figured it was worth a shot.

We arrived and we walked all the way around the building to locate the entrance. It was a bit deceiving because there were doors on the parking lot side, but they were not the entrance doors. Finally, we entered, checked in, and waited for our adventure.

The dairy camp was fun. My kids were old enough to enjoy it and not too old to be bored by it. The decor was my favorite part. Cheddar snack size portions made up the low walls to designate where to go. Tables were designed as ice cream pints. They had cream cheese blocks and tubs to stack and play with for one activity. The budget spent on design was spot on.

The kids even received cute little Tillamook bags at the end of their adventure. They clung onto them as we browsed the gift shop and in the car on the way home. But as soon as we made it home and got our shoes off, the bags were left in the back hallway. I retrieved them and took them for myself, so it's my cute little tote bag now. 

All in all, it was a fun adventure. Thank you, Tillamook, for hosting such a fun indoor children's activity during the summer. 

An unexpected side to bringing my kids to this dairy camp was discovering more about myself and how I wanted to proceed with my grey hair journey. Originally, I had planned this entire series and written out every story I wanted to share in a specific order. I've shared many of them with you throughout this year on my blog. Then, it came to the final few stories to end my series. That's where I got stuck. I wrote my first draft of this in April. I tried again about a month later. And I tried again this summer. All of those drafts got scrapped because I wasn't happy with the message they conveyed. Part of it was I didn't know what the clear message I wanted to convey was.

At this dairy camp, I found my answer.

***

When we first gathered to go in, the lady rounding us up had grey hair. Her color was completely natural and you could see the greys spread throughout her hair. But her face looked young. Her skin looked young. She had an energy about her which contrasted to the color of her hair. And she was doing her job appealing to this group of young children, working magic to open the secret door to our awaiting adventure. 

That's the person I want to be. As my hair goes ever more grey, I hope I can still exude youth in my face, my words, my personality. It takes an insane amount of self-acceptance to be able to face the world with so many greys at such an early age, but as time passes, I've learned to rest in the confidence. That's not to say I don't have bad days. I have plenty of bad days when I look in the mirror and the reflection staring back at me makes me feel like I'm an old lady. Those are the hard days. There are also good days when I look into the mirror and I feel they're not as pronounced as I thought they were. 

The reality is, both reflections are the same. It's true - different lighting and different hairstyles might look varied, but the hairs on my head are still the same. So the truth of the matter is perspective. 

As I get older each year, my need to "stay young" decreases little by little. After all, we all have to remember, aging is a privilege. It's not something everyone gets to experience either. So this concludes my series on two decades of grey. Writing it was cathartic for me and allowed me to love myself on a whole other spectrum. 

Two Decades of Grey: Overseas

I kind of got stuck after writing the previous part of this series. Do I know how the story continues? Of course I do. I lived it. But I got stuck because I wasn't sure how to share it in a way which was productive. Honestly, it was symbolic of this period of my life. I didn't love my grey hair, but it was becoming more and more a reality. I was now an adult, learning to live with it, but also still dyeing my hair consistently. 

My husband is not the first person to tell me he doesn't mind my grey hair. But he is the first person  I've believed. He's also the only person who has seen it in its full extent and still looks at me the exact same way. And even then, it took nearly a decade for me to get here. I dyed my hair for the better part of eight years of marriage. 

I wasn't ready to believe it before then. I didn't even  like it myself. How could I believe someone else?

**

When I lived overseas, I'd wake up in the morning and go to my bathroom to get ready in the morning. Because of the lighting of my bathroom - not great - it would appear like my grey hairs were gone. Even when I fussed around my roots, the greys would appear to be colored. I'd have a moment of shock, amazement, hope, and then I'd run to the mirror in a different light, and there they were again. It's like they literally reappeared after disappearing for a moment and tricking me. I still remember that elated, bubbly excited feeling as if something miraculous was happening. And of course the deflating feeling after when I saw them again. 

Even during these moments of false hope, I'd wonder to myself. What was I expecting, a miracle? Sure, it’s possible. I believe God is capable of taking away my grey hairs with the snap of a finger. But will He? I think He has bigger fish to fry. I don't think eliminating my grey hair is high up on His agenda. 

At the same time, if I wanted to give God the chance to perform this miracle, I had to stop hiding. I had to let it be for what it was, and if He ever wants to show Himself in this way, then He has the chance. 

When I lived overseas, it was the first time I saw younger girls with premature grey hair. And then I thought, it must be an Asian thing. So I felt less alone, but I still fit the category of a young Asian with premature grey.  I'd shared about my grey hair with my teammates early on. I even packed myself two boxes of hair dye to bring overseas. Later in the year when my hair was growing and the roots were showing again, one of my teammates even mentioned, "Oh, I thought you were exaggerating when you said you had grey hair. It's actually more than just a few."

Nope, I was not exaggerating. 

**

Having not colored my hair for over a year, I've learned that hair can re-pigment itself over time. Most of the hairs which are grey stay grey at the root. But every now and then, I see a hair that is grey in the middle and dark at the root. If I kept dyeing my hair every month whenever I started to see grey roots, I would have never have seen this for myself with my own hair. 

This is how I know God is capable of changing my hair color if He wanted to. Will He? I don't think so, and it's not because I doubt His power. It's because I understand the choices made as an Almighty Being must be made carefully. Every wish cannot be granted. Every prayer cannot be answered. When you know the ultimate outcome, you know every sequence it will take to get there.

Two Decades of Grey: CVS

I still remember the first time I dyed my hair. I had gotten a temporary one to start because the chemicals are less strong and I wanted to get my feet wet in the art of hair color. I remember getting out of the shower and wringing my hair out in my towel. Bits of color came off onto the towel as I dried my hair, but that was to be expected as it was temporary color. Also, who knows how well I actually rinsed off my hair. I tried. Later, I learned this happens after any kind of coloring. I learned to have designated black t-shirts to dry my hair that first wash. 

When I looked in the mirror, I saw a sea of black hair again, a uniform color with no imperfections. It felt normal. It looked normal. It looked good. And I knew from that moment, I wanted to see my hair colored for as long as I could help it. 

**

I need to insert a caveat here. Had I been 18 years old with the amount of grey hair I had, my opinions may have been different. Had I been 21 years old with the amount of grey hair I had, I may have felt differently. Had I been 25+ years old with the amount of grey hair I had, perhaps I would have done things differently. But I wasn't 25, 21, or even 18. I was 15, in the heart of high school, surrounded by a false impression of the way things "should" have been. And I had already endured at least two years of knowing the extent of what I had and how "abrnomal" it felt. After all, someone actually thought it was more likely for me to have bow hair in my hair at a grocery store...

**

So when I saw my hair colored dark and black, I felt like the teenager I wished I could be. I felt like a person I wanted to be but could not by nature. So I kept it up for the next 16 years. For the first 10 or so, I was dyeing my hair every five weeks to cover the roots, and I always did it myself. I can count the number of times I paid for hair color at the salon on one hand. 

In college, my roommates never knew I dyed my hair for the first two years. My freshman roommate was hardly ever in our room. She'd come back late after I had already fallen asleep most nights and left in the mornings before I awoke. It was easy to color my hair without her knowing and I never had a reason to tell her. During my sophomore year, I'd wake up early on Saturday mornings to dye my hair. My roommate would be asleep, and not many people were awake so I'd have the community bathroom to myself for the most part. It wasn't until my third and final year of college when I moved into an apartment and shared a bathroom with my roommate when I finally shared about my hair dye.  

During those college years, CVS was the place I bought my hair color. I was just using cheap drugstore ammonia-free hair color. Probably not the best thing in the world for my hair, but it was easily accessible and matched my frugal student budget. I could walk across campus, cross the street, and get to CVS. I even looked up the weekly sales online so I knew when the hair color was on sale. 2 boxes for $5. The same hair color is now $3.97 online and the days of 2 for $5 are long gone.

Good ol' CVS.

I have a memory at CVS during one of these shopping trips which I'll never forget. I ran into a boy I'd met through a friend from back home. We hadn't spoken to each other in at least a year. He was just an acquaintance, but he recognized me in the checkout line. As my items were being rang up, he asked me, "Wow, you dye your hair?" I was horrified. Not only had I run into someone I knew, but it was in one of my more vulnerable moments with a secret I had only verbalized to a select few people. 

It was in that moment when the cashier saved me. I was too stunned to speak and my face probably showed everything racing through my mind. But I'll never forget her response. 

You should never ask a girl if she dyes her hair.

At the time, I quickly paid for my things and left the CVS. I don't remember saying anything after hearing that boy ask me such a penetrating question. I don't remember what the cashier at CVS looks like. I only remember feeling like I had to get out of there as fast as I possibly could. 

The older I got, the more I realized how protective her statement was. I so wish I could have remembered the name on her tag or her face, or even the color of her hair. But I don't. I only remember her words, and they will stay with me forever.

This was the first of a few select moments in which I felt supported, protected, and affirmed. As unfortunate as the start of this was from my dad's response that very first conversation we had, there've been many moments which have helped to bring me to the place I am today. Perhaps this was all orchestrated from the beginning to play out in this very way. 

I just never knew it until I lived through it. 

Two Decades of Grey - Middle School Part 2

When I was in 8th grade, I had a few friends already at the high school. One of them was part of the orchestra committee. The group was getting together to plan something, something which involved a trip to the grocery store. 

I don't remember how it was proposed to me to go meet a friend and hang out with them during their orchestra committee "planning meeting." I don't remember how I even got there or who drove. All I knew is I ended up at the local Kroger with a bunch of freshman and sophomore orchestra students.

I remember standing in an aisle, the group of us kind of in a circle formation, chatting. This one girl was looking my direction. Suddenly, she started approaching my right shoulder. My gaze instinctively followed her. She lifted up her arm and slowly reached for something. Then, she jolted her arm back and stepped backward, further away from me than she had been standing before. 

We looked at her, waiting for her explanation for the strange motions which had just occurred.

"I thought it was a bow hair."

I've never forgotten this line. How silly, right? None of us had an instrument with us. Why would there be a bow hair near my shoulder as I stood in the middle of a Kroger aisle with one friend and the rest mere acquaintances if not strangers. Of course, it wasn't a bow hair. She did not say what was implied when she realized what she had actually seen.

Bow hair or grey hair? I'll let you decide.

I wasn't dyeing my hair yet, but by 8th grade, I had learned which styles I could safely wear to school to hide all of the greys. It was limiting, but I was okay with it because it meant I could mind my business in peace and not have to field strange questions. Most of the time, I could almost forget they existed because nobody brought it up. The friends who knew didn't comment, and the rest of them didn't know. 

What I could not control were the moments when a strand would peek out unintentionally through the dark curtain of black and become visible. This is exactly what she saw that day in the aisle at Kroger. I remember feeling more alien and abnormal after this happened. A part of my memory remembers her shuddering as well as jolting back and stepping away. This may or may not be my mind making it up. But I didn't make up her words.

****

It's almost comical how illogical it was for her mind to have first thought I had a bow hair near me in the aisle of Kroger. But that only showed me how inconceivable it was for a 14-year-old girl to have grey hair in the minds of certain peers. And it made the truth sting that much more.

Two Decades of Grey: Middle School - Part 1

I was in middle school when I noticed my own grey hair and began to dislike it. Up until this age, I knew they existed, but they were few enough to lay low and not interfere. By 7th grade, I had to consciously do my hair for school in a way which concealed them. Certain hair styles for me were off the table. Anything with a half updo, I could not wear. 

One evening, I remember sitting at my desk in my room with the lamp on. It was supposed to be the desk used for homework. Very rarely did I ever complete my homework at my desk. I wrote my diary every evening at my desk. I crafted at my desk. I made a DIY sun catcher and used a blade to cut out shapes. For a while I practiced writing with my left hand at my desk. My ambidextrous talent never took off, but I'm decent on a dry erase board.

The DIY sun catcher I made in middle school. Two pieces of
cardboard sandwiching a sheet of iridescent film covered with decorative contact paper.
My first time using a blade to cut. This piece of art has survived decades.

I cut my hair at that desk. Once.

It wasn't your normal hair cut. I had somehow gotten the idea in my head that if I cut all of my grey hairs out, you wouldn't be able to find any and my hair would be restored to a uniform single color again. After all, they always tell you not to pull out grey hairs or else two would grow back, right? What a silly lie. So that's what I did one evening. I sat at my desk with my lamp turned on, grabbed a grey hair one by one, and snipped high up on my head.

After doing this, something inside of me felt more safe, comfortable. I was going to wear a half updo to school now that I'd found a "solution."

What my young teenage brain failed to process was that unless the scissors were placed adjacent to my scalp, (which I didn't do because I would risk cutting other hairs or my scalp itself - this I was able to process logically and correctly,) my greys weren't actually "gone." In fact, they were now even more obvious than if all the hairs on my head were a consistent length. 

I learned this the hard way when a friend saw and commented on my grey hairs being an uneven length compared to everything else. That's when something in my brain clicked and I came to the conclusion stated above. My "solution" wasn't actually a solution at all, and I became even more self-conscious.

***

In 8th grade, I remember being in the library with a few other girls. Our schedules were different so due to what they were doing at the middle school, we were hanging out in the library for an extended time that week. It was a book fair week. I remember us sitting between shelves of books for sale at the book fair. We were sprawled out on the floor just chatting and relaxing as teenagers do. 

Somehow the conversation went to talking about a movie. One of the girls remarked, "It would be really cool to have silver hair like the character." 

I replied, "Oh, I've got some. I'm almost there." 

I will never forget her response. "No, Cathy, yours are grey."

Shut down in five words I'll never be able to erase. She could have said a multitude of other things which wouldn't have had the same sting: 

You don't have enough yet. 

Maybe in 20 years. 

Haha, that's funny.

But instead, she said the worst thing you could have said to me as a response. And sadly, I'll never forget it.

Two Decades of Grey: Grade School

When I was in kindergarten, my mother was in her early 40s. She was considered one of the older parents of that generation. She also had a very even sprinkle of salt and pepper grey hair. I have memories of her coloring it occasionally, but she wasn't diligent about it, and I don't think she wanted to be. I have a clear memory of a boy in my kindergarten class asking me if the woman picking me up was my grandmother. That was the first negative impression left on me regarding grey hair. I knew my mother had grey hair, and I knew it wasn't her original hair color. I'm not saying natural because natural changes...it's whatever grows out of your head. And I was intuitive enough to understand that visual greys led someone to think you were older than you actually were. This is one of the earliest moments where I planted an idea in my head: I wanted to have kids early. Mentally, I didn't want to be the mother of a kindergartener and being mistaken for her grandmother. 

I know he didn't mean anything by asking me that - it's an innocent question trying to clarify a potential confusion. But I also know as a young child myself, it left an impression, one that still trails me in my shadows. I see it first-hand now in my own kindergartener. She surprises me daily with the questions she asks me and random conversations we have.

***

I was in grade school when my mother found my first grey hair. I remember it as being 4th grade. My mother had just been diagnosed with cancer within the last year. She saw it one afternoon and said with a sad voice, "You have a grey hair already." Her words held the weight of someone who walked the exact same path - she indeed had. I still have a fear I will be in her shoes from the other side. 

Besides this memory, I don't actually recall my mother commenting on my grey hair for the rest of her life. Maybe she didn't because she knew what it was like to be the young girl with premature grey hairs. Maybe she didn't because she was busy researching and finding the best doctors to consult to help her fight for her life. Maybe she didn't because she didn't care, and there were only a few - literally, countable on one hand at the time. I think this has been a secret blessing because if I remember my mother commenting on this, it would have tainted our relationship even more. So I'm glad she didn't, or I'm glad I don't remember. 

***

Sometime in the last ten years, it hit me that my mother had youthful skin. Even despite losing her hair due to all the treatments she was undergoing, her face looked young. I remember taking one of the last photos I remember with her on my 11th birthday. And for the longest time, it was very hard for me to look at the photo because all I saw were the effects of the cancer, the chemo, the radiation, and I didn't see the mother I knew as a child. 

That's actually not the last photo we have together. I found one from the summer I won grand prize at a piano competition. It was two years before she died. She'd lost even more hair. But she was happy, and she was next to me. Her face is so cute. 

I used to be ashamed of these photos. I didn't want to see my mother in photos because it solidified the horrors and the fears of what she experienced. It made my own trauma and scars that much more real. But I cherish these now. 

I miss the girl in these pictures. She was young, naive in the right ways, and simple. It's sad how with wisdom and knowledge come a layer of heaviness and burden. 

That was middle school. 

Two Decades of Grey: Intro

At the end of last year, my dad said the most real sentence he's said to me in person in a long, long time. 

Wow, you have grey hair.

We were leaving his house after I'd brought the kids over to visit. It was a rainy day so he was holding an umbrella over me as I buckled my children in. For the extended amount of time it took for me to secure my children into the car and for the closeness of our proximity due to holding an umbrella over both of us, my dad noticed. 

On the drive home, I cried. I didn't cry because he noticed my grey hair. I've noticed it myself for decades. I was crying because he didn't remember or he didn't remember to the extent I wished he would have. Because you know what? I showed it to him nearly 20 years ago, and he shrugged it off. 

I was about 14 years old. I couldn't drive myself yet. Somehow, I made the decision to ask my dad a question that evening. I went up to him in the kitchen, the west side of the room. I remember our positions almost exactly. My dad's back was toward our second refrigerator facing me. I was standing next to the corner of our kitchen island facing the breakfast table, adjacent to him. It was evening time, dark outside. The Tiffany chandelier above our breakfast table lit the room with a yellow glow. I went up to him and said something along the lines of, "Daddy, I have grey hair. Can I dye it?" 

He responded, "You have grey hair? I don't see any." I lifted the top half of my hair to reveal where the majority of it was. He took a quick look and shrugged it off. "Oh, that's not that much. Hair dye can irritate your scalp and make you itchy, You don't need it." Little did he know the things my friends said to me at school or how self-conscious I was.

After that, I made a mental note not to share things like this with my dad. I felt so unheard and ignored in that moment. I knew when I could get myself to the store without him, I was going to buy my own hair dye, and that's exactly what I did. I started coloring my own hair in the summer of 2006. 

***

The last time I dyed my hair was December 2022. It wasn't a conscious choice to stop, but I'd already reached a point where I wasn't dyeing it consistently anymore. Maybe only 2-3 times a year. Around the time I would have dyed it, I started having some health problems. And somehow between life and the way I was feeling, I decided I would not continue to dye it. If I didn't feel this way, I would continue to color my hair, but I'm secretly lazy. So these two sides of me have been fighting each other. It's been almost 13 months, the longest I've ever gone without hair dye in almost 18 years. 

I told myself I wanted to write a series about my experiences and memories with regard to my hair. A lot of them are painful. A lot of them are filled with bitterness and anger. But I want to share it because it is a part of who I am today. And I don't know who needs to read and know about it, but someone might. Why else would women join the silver sisters movement on social media? They want to know they're not alone. 

That's something I've had to come to terms with before I could comfortably do this. Because all my life, I was feeding myself emotional lies based on real life experiences: Your grey hair is weird. You're a grandma! Grey hair is disgusting. What's wrong with you? You're so old. It looks really bad. It would look much better colored. Oh, wow, that's a lot of grey. 

I can't even write out these phrases without getting emotional because they're so deeply rooted with individual experiences I've had throughout the last 20 years and they resonate with statements people have said to me. But I picked this year as the year to tell my story and share all the memories I've buried and hidden for two decades. My dad's statement hurt because it took him two decades to understand what I was feeling as a teenager. But I'm not 14 anymore. 

So in this series, I want to take you through these 20 years with me and discover the experiences, the memories, and the unexpected encouragements along the way.