Is Gray Hair The Anti-Sex?

You cannot write about going gray without including sex. Gray is the anti-sex color.
One of my friends, a multiple divorcee, was completely gray by forty; a silvery mane that sparkled like she did on good days. By fifty, she was still single but didn’t want to be. Her hairdresser suggested going platinum. Only shades away from her natural silver, the platinum blond did attract more men though I don’t know if she snagged one. We lost touch. 
 Men don’t automatically become a cliché once their gray comes in; especially men with money. Those guys become distinguished and worthy of women half their age. I admit, a man without money sporting gray hair make me wonder about Viagra, especially if he’s also carrying a spare tire around his middle. Shallow for sure,  but facts are facts: In our culture, we judge by wrappings. Though some of my best gifts have come wrapped in the ugliest packages, I still love to open a lovely wrapped package. Who doesn’t? Which is why going gray, even gray wrapped in a silver sheen, is not a cultural mores many embrace. 
One of my girlfriends just won’t acknowledge it. Every once in a while I’ll catch her shooting me a side glance. In her eyes I read "What the hell?" though it could be my own projection. In the early days, my eldest daughter did not like my color shift, and, in keeping with the genetic pool she flows from, did not keep her op-ed to herself. But on Mother’s Day, she began turning the corner. By then I was a few more shades into silver and she had a few more months to adjust. Her gift to me, along with a gorgeous buttery leather black bag, was this affirmation: “Okay, I’m seeing it now.” Her initial reaction mirrored my own when I first began to appreciate that my mother, a woman who always set the pace, was slowing down. Gray hair can symbolize that. But this ole gal still has game left. Now that my eldest has made peace with her fears, at least for now, she’s rooting for my silver to beat out any impulse I have to wash it all away with the box of Clairol I keep around just in case.
Male reactions have been interesting. Not long ago I caught my Sweetie, who is silvery white and 100% behind my color shift, giving a statuesque blond the once over. So I posed a question women know men have no right answers to—that’s why we pose them. “So tell me, how often do you give a silver haired woman the once over?” We chuckled as he tiptoed through that mine field sputtering out verbiage about being sure he did.   
I live in Newport Beach, California, the capital of ‘money can buy you just about anything including young women with large breasts.’ It’s no secret, men in my age group living here like big breasted young women a lot. I never fit that profile, even in my youth, which is why local men never paid me much mind. I’ve never minded much because men who believe they can have a relationship over any length of time with women young enough to be their daughters are men I have no interest in anyway—so there.
Younger men are okay with my silvery hue. My guess is, lots of them are looking for mommy. When my girlfriends tell me younger men are lots of fun, I say they didn’t breast feed long enough though I believe Madonna has — however, her wealth puts her in that league of moneyed men. If serving up her version of mommy-hood to a 22 year-old young stud makes her happy, I say go for it until he doesn’t anymore. She can afford it. I’ve got three daughters whose ages cover the 20’s.That’s enough kids for me.
I’m interested in peer group camaraderie. Those old women singing ‘When I grow up I want to be an old woman’ on TV are women I aspire to be. I see me, an old woman, my long, silvery white braid swaying down my back as I move through a yoga vinyasa flow class filled with other old women and men.
That’s what I want to be when I grow up, a silver haired, old woman. So far, I’m on my way though you never know, I could still go platinum.
Stay tuned.

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