I started spotting gray hairs when I was about 34. At first, it was just a silver streak near my temple—kind of stylish, actually. My partner even nicknamed it my “storm stripe,” which made me laugh. But now, at 38, the gray has spread. It’s not completely silver, but definitely noticeable. I never dyed it—not because of any big statement—I just didn’t mind enough to bother.
Last week at work, though, something happened that made me think twice. I was heading into the break room when I overheard Jamal from accounting joking around: “Ask Granny over there, she’s been around since the fax machine days.”
I froze mid-step. They laughed. I didn’t.
I pretended it didn’t bother me, grabbed my lunch, and carried on. But the comment stuck with me longer than I expected. After that, Tyrese—the new guy I was training—started calling me “Ma’am” in an overly formal, awkward way. Suddenly, my age felt like the only thing anyone noticed about me—not my hard work or late nights fixing the client portal—just the silver near my ears.
That night, standing in front of the mirror, I inspected my hair from different angles. I even tried one of those apps that show what you’d look like with different hair colors.
Then, as if perfectly timed, my mom texted me a selfie—standing proudly at a farmers market, gray hair and all, with a bright, unfiltered smile. No caption. No explanation. Just pure, easy confidence. I stared at that photo for a long time.
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