From Badger to Vixen by Sheena Wilkinson

This is a weird thing to link to writing, but bear with me. Over the years, I've become like a vicar who can make any apparently random subject relate to Jesus in a sermon. Only in my case, it's writing not Jesus. 

Exactly a year ago I stopped dyeing my hair. That might sound trivial, but I agonised about it for years.

My natural hair colour was very dark brown, and the grey hairs came through early, probably in my twenties. It did not occur to me for one moment that I could leave them be and they would gradually do their own thing, and that that would be OK. My granny's hair was jet black until she was about seventy (it wasn't, obviously), and my mother, even today at 76, has no intention of 'letting herself go'. And I was female. I was young. I was single. Grey? No way! 

For a while I kept the grey at bay (yes, I saw it as an enemy to be fought on all fronts) with natural henna. It was a messy business but my hair always felt good afterwards. Then, probably in my mid-thirties, the henna stopped working and I embarked on two decades of chemical dyeing, first at home (the stains on my bathroom floor and the brown-streaked towels bearing witness both to my clumsiness and to the tenacity of the chemicals) and then, every five weeks or so, at the hairdresser's. 

It was a pain. It was a palaver. It was very smelly. It was expensive. But not once, in all those years, was I tempted to stop. Not once did I think, grey's OK! It was rare to see a woman my age with grey hair: either they dyed it, or they hadn't started going grey yet. Any woman who did go for the natural look was regarded as a frump. Just look at how Mary Beard was treated, and compare that with, say, George Clooney. Because of course it's different for men. 

It's not that I spent all my time thinking about my hair. But every date in the calendar sparked the worry: what will my hair be like then? Will it be freshly dyed and therefore fit for the world to see? There was only ever a window of a fortnight for that. On about the fifteenth day (it was like having an extra menstrual cycle to think about), the telltale white line would start to appear. Then it would be root spray, coloured mousse, root mascara -- you name it, I tried it. Hair appointments always had to be booked for the days of book launches and public appearances and parties. My hair is quite fine, so the white parting always, to my mind, made me look as though I was balding. I knew that the constant dyeing wasn't helping its condition. 

silver fox with non-silver bride 

Lockdown was a game changer for so many women. Lots of my friends embraced their natural grey, and I was tempted. But I was getting married in 2021, and though I could do nothing about being a 53-year-old bride, it never occurred to be me to be a grey bride. Even though the groom had been grey for decades. And when that was over, I thought I can't do it now, or people will say, she got married and then she let herself go! Maybe sixty, I thought.

But this time last year, I cracked. I was fed up with this constant cycle. I was worried about what the chemicals were doing to me: they were certainly making my scalp burn in a way that didn't feel healthy. And -- because I am as clearly as suggestible as the next woman -- suddenly I seemed to be surrounded by friends, and people in public life, who were grey and gorgeous. 

the last event for which I had my hair dyed -- exactly a year ago

You could do a PhD in grey blending techniques, but I decided that none of that chemical stuff was for me. My hair had suffered enough and the healthiest, if not the easiest way was to do nothing. Let nature take its course. My hairdresser was unenthusiastic, telling me the dye covered the hair shaft and so my grey hair might seem even thinner. Deep down, I had a feeling she was wrong. I had an instinct that there was some nice grey hair just waiting for a chance to shine. And anyway, I had committed: whatever I had, I would deal with. I'm far too stubborn to change my mind so I prayed it would be OK. 

in London last summer looking badgery 

I'm not pretending it was easy. The first few months were tough - the badgery streak, the two-tone look, the fading of the remaining dyed hair to an unbecoming beige no-colour. But the grey kept coming through, fifty shades of it -- well, not quite, but there's certainly quite a nice natural highlighty thing going on. I had to be quite bold in some situations. I started saying, 'Yes, it's deliberate, I haven't just been too busy to go to the hairdresser' when people gave me funny looks -- which they did. 'I just wouldn't be brave enough' was something I heard a lot.' And the classic (from my hairdresser), 'Well, as long as you like it.'

yes, it took some guts to out looking like this

I do like it. I love it. My hair is in better condition than it's been for years. I love my new author photo where yes, I look older. I am older. I'll be 56 this year. Some people, including friends of mine, aren't granted that. And I'm so pleased to be living in a world now where there's not the same pressure on women to dye their hair, to deny aging, to fit societal norms. Of course people should have the choice and on one level they always did: nobody forced me to dye my hair. But as a feminist, and a non-conforming woman in many ways, it never occurred to 30- or 40- or even 50-year-old me that that was a choice I could make. 

new author photo 

So what, dear reader, if you are still with me, has that got to do with writing? Maybe not much. But I do liken that year of looking first pretty awful, and then a bit weird, and then sort of in flux and then, eventually, the way I'm meant to look, to the development of a novel from idea, through rough, even embarrassing first draft, to eventual polished book. And even more, it's the book I really wanted to write. 

loving it now!