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Ageing, it’s not all that grey

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Mohanmeet Mann Khosla

They sneak in, one silvery strand after the other. Going grey is not everyone’s cup of dye. Those who are bald are of course not relevant to the discussion, or to the advertisers.

To dye or not to dye is a conversation you have with the mirror, and maybe with those who matter, such as yourself. In the general scheme of things, everyone else is redundant — something I realised to my sorrow when young, and to my joy when old. So yes, there you are, peering at the frown lines, crow’s feet, nasolabial folds… to look at the rest of you, you have to scramble around on the floor because gravity has already beaten you to it. Suffice it to say, age has come visiting, and has now decided to stay on because it likes itself on you. The problem is that not all those who love are loved in return. And so it is with ageing. To spurn it we resort to sculpting, suctioning, lifting, freezing and, ironically, dyeing. Homophones are lovely little things, aren’t they? Particularly when you are old and start using your age as an excuse for many misadventures, including misspellings.

Do you continue with the stormy youth, dark clouds and all, or do you zap it with silver streaks? I am a votary for the latter. Not that it is an easy call, especially when you look around at people your age, the closest human being the husband. His scalp continues to sport a relatively healthy crop of dark hair even though he is well into his 50s. But then, he is also the sort who sleeps the minute the said scalp touches the pillow, so maybe one can just disregard him as some sort of a genetic mutation not worthy of too much heartburn. However, there is no denying the overarching perception that grey hair makes a man look distinguished but a woman dowdy.

What if we were to welcome each moment, even if it comes tied with a grey string? My heart knows its scars and my brain its pain. How can my body not bear witness? The silver in my hair reminds me that I weathered the storm. I greyed young, but then, my mother often told me that I was born wise. That is yet another silver lining, I suppose. And there are more. You don’t have to worry about the white roots showing, about dousing your head with chemicals, about the expense, about the pretense. The grey gets you a chair in a crowded room and a filled plate from the buffet without budging from the chair. It frees you from having to deal with humans who have yet to hear about sapiosexuality. You get a quiet laugh out of being directed to the senior citizen counter or to the vacant European-style washroom. You can eavesdrop on conversations because people assume you are hard of hearing. You can avoid people and blame it on your weak eyesight. The list goes on.

Storms are enjoyed best when you are not in the middle of them. The silver lining is the ringside view. Take a seat. Because you are worth it.

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