Winter 2004
December 21
Not such good feedback. At a party, a friend remarks, "Oooh, how lovely. You’re going gray — just like a man!"
New Year’s Eve
I feel like backing out. Three months into the process and my hair is now coming in pretty clearly white and gray. There is no doubt in my eyes: I look older. My fantasy — looking like an awesome 40-year-old with snow white hair — probably won’t come true. Everyone I know says they like the "softer" color I have now, but I feel more tentative. I’m sure that when people glance at my horrible roots, they think I have let myself go. To bear their condescending looks of concern or even contempt requires seriously thick skin. If I weren’t writing about this experience, I know I would crumple.
January 14
I go back to the colorist. I get more light highlights pulled through to blend the roots into my overall color. This time, the rinse she applies makes me feel really cheap-looking. I hate it, but what can I do? I can’t strip the color out — the processing would make me look like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz, with a head of straw. The best thing to do is just let it grow out.
March 5
It was the dreariest February, and it feels as if my hair is mirroring the weather and my mood. But at the gym I see I’ve lost six pounds. If going gray is what it takes to get me in shape, that, at least, is a silver lining.

Spring 2005
April 5
It is taking forever to grow out! I’m neither here nor there.
May 2
In a single day, I hear the full range of opinions. As I step outside to pick up my morning newspaper, my vibrant, 84-year-old gray-haired neighbor says, "I love the way the gray is coming in." Coming into the house this afternoon, her sexy, 50-something dyed-blonde daughter blurts out, "Why do you want to go making yourself look older? I’d never do that!"
May 8
I hate this growing-in phase. I should have just bitten the bullet and cut my hair short at the beginning. But I believe my long hair is sexier and more feminine than short. I am also feeling proud of myself. I’m past the "one day at a time" phase, when I couldn’t stop thinking about my roots, or girding myself not to. Now it’s like watching bulbs peek out from under the winter snow: I begin to sense the new me, light gray around my face and steel gray in back. Most of the time I actually like the two-tone quality, since it reflects precisely my stage in life: neither young nor old, but an intriguing equilibrium.