Persian Cat

I am going grey. Not me, of course. I ‘m more colourful now than I’ve ever been. No, I mean my hair.

I found my first grey hair as I was putting on my make up for a pitch meeting on my 35th birthday. It was a shock and horrified me all day.  I thought it was the beginning of the inevitable slippery slope of ageing and all downhill from there. How wrong I was.

In the intervening time I have sharpened up my act. I have discovered the gym and lost my post-baby pudginess (well, most of it); learned to swim, ski and cycle; learned through my time in Paris to blow dry my hair, apply my make up and generally step out with my best stylish foot forward (one must never let the side down;) I took up running, got (reasonably) fit and unleashed a confidence, joie de vivre and Sass I never thought I would ever possess. And whether and when I choose to deploy this newer me, in part or in sum, is totally my own choice.

Now, no life is perfect and having bad, sad days is normal too, but now, as I perceive my sixth decade marching towards me on the horizon, I feel like a different, better person than I ever was when I stepped out to work in a suit with a skirt that left sore, red weals around my waist. And though my hair has been caramel, and red and purple and cinnamon as well as my natural black – I even let my hair be a bit blonder for a time but, strangely, had LESS fun – it’s hardly become any greyer. Until now.

New silver hair seems to appear every week, mingling with the black and whichever highlights/lowlights I’m currently growing out. It’s frightening and inexorable. But exciting too. For not all of those silver strands are frazzled and twisty. Some are silken and shine like moonlight. And yes I could, and do have my hair coloured occasionally and Danielle at Baccarat does a great job, but do you know what? I’m tempted to see what happens. To just let things develop in the hope that a stunning silver mane will eventually take the place of the black. I’m hoping I’ll be a silver vixen because I’m sure they do exist. And I shall continue to wear heels and red lipstick and black eyeliner. I shall wear short(ish) skirts and paint my toenails red. Or black. Or green. Because being in your late 40s is not sad. It’s scintillating.