I started noticing gray hairs when I was around 34. At first, it was just a small streak near my temple—kind of cool, actually. My partner even joked and called it my “storm stripe,” which made me laugh. But now, at 38, the gray is more visible. I’ve never dyed it—not as a statement, but simply because it never bothered me enough to change it.
Last week at work, something shifted.
I was heading into the break room when I overheard a colleague from accounting joking around. “Ask Granny over there—she’s been around since faxes.” There was laughter. I paused, stung but pretending not to be.
I kept walking, grabbed my lunch, and tried to shake it off. But afterward, the trainee I was helping—Tyrese, just out of college—started calling me “Ma’am” with a sort of exaggerated politeness. I don’t think he meant anything by it, but it made me feel like my age was suddenly front and center—not my experience, not my dedication, not the late nights fixing the company’s client portal.
That night, I stood in front of the mirror, tilting my head, pulling my hair back, trying to decide if I should finally dye it. I even tested one of those virtual apps just to see what it would look like.
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