I’m embracing my long, multi-colored, graying hair.
For as long as I can remember, my mother has been “old.” When I was nine years old, I thought she was ancient. Of course, I didn’t know then that she was only 29 years of age. I was ten years old the day I came home from school to find my mother sobbing uncontrollably. I asked her what was wrong, thinking that someone must have died. Nope! That wasn’t what was wrong. She had her 30th birthday and was deemed old.
I went upstairs to my bedroom and decided that I wasn’t going to face aging like my mother. I wasn’t going to worry about dying my hair or wearing high heels to prove I was still young, nor was I going to cry all day long on my 30th birthday. I was going to embrace growing old and enjoy it. I wasn’t ever going to be afraid of aging.
I had a choice: I could grow old or die. It was that simple. I pondered what might be wrong with my mother for many years after this. Why was she crying instead of happy to be alive? It really made no sense to me. So many people don’t get to live into old age, so why not embrace it?
My mother was spending more and more time dying her hair than she was enjoying life. When I traded in my glasses for contacts, she told me how “fake” they were. I looked at her incredulously and reminded her that her dyed hair was fake. She quickly changed the subject.
Twenty years later, I celebrated my 30th birthday. My friends threw a party, and we had a lot of fun. My mother called to ask me if I had cried all day. I proudly informed her that I was aging with grace and style and there would be no tears. I am sure she was disappointed because I received a package about a week later.
My package included a box of hair dye, a pair of high heels, a short skirt, and a racy shirt to match. I packed them all away in my closet. I didn’t care if I had a few gray hairs. I didn’t need a short, sassy skirt, and I knew better than to wear high heels as I’d already broken the same ankle twice.
To her dismay, I’m right out of the ’60s, and the hippy skirts have always been my “go-to” style of dressing. I think she hoped I’d outgrow my hippy skirts, but I have simply continued wearing them and don’t have to worry if I drop something and bend over to pick it up.
I’m sure my mother was disappointed that I didn’t take aging like she did. For years, she has asked me if I would like her to buy me a box of hair dye so I didn’t have long, graying hair. I’ve told her adamantly that I was fine with my long hair the color it is. I actually get many great compliments on my hair and am often asked where I get it done.
It’s about six shades of varying colors: white, silver, and gray. It has a dark layer underneath reminiscent of my once auburn locks. I have received so many compliments off of it since I allowed it to naturally turn gray that I can’t imagine going back. Some people pay big bucks to have hair in so many shades. It’s like it naturally highlighted itself.
I pondered things a few weeks before I turned 60. I even managed to give myself a panic attack. However, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that not everyone gets to turn 60. Not everyone gets to grow up. I have decided to embrace my age. I walk daily, and I spend time enjoying life. I admit my age when asked and laugh when they tell me I look much younger.
I turned 61 on my last birthday. I’m now caring for my mother and father, who are now 81 and 82. My mother finally stopped dying her hair about four months ago. When no one is looking, she holds her cane up like a music director in a marching band when she walks as if to say, “I don’t need this.”
I recently watched her run across an intersection, holding her cane like she was in a marching band. When she realized I was looking, she quickly began using her cane again. I’m unsure if she really needs it, but I make her use it “just in case.”
I’ve chosen to age gracefully instead of fighting it every step of the way. Sure, I have had to face the fact that I can’t do some things that I used to be able to do. However, I’ll leave those things to the younger set; they’re no longer vital to my happiness.
My wonderful children keep telling me that I’m not old; I’m just aging in style. They’ve stepped in to help me with things I now find a bit more challenging, like standing on a ladder to reach the top shelf or bending down to the bottom.
I’ve never cried on my birthday, and I honestly don’t believe I ever will. I’ve shared my reasons with my children, and they agree: you can’t stop age until the day you die, so you might as well embrace it and live in the moment. The alternative isn’t nearly so appealing.
As I watch my parents grow older and step in to care for them more and more, I’m grateful to my own children for helping me as I age. Am I afraid of aging? NOPE, I’ve embraced it every step of the way and love every minute of it now, if I could only find my other pair of glasses.
© Kelly Corinne Elliott 2023. All Rights Reserved.