When I let my hair go grey, I didn’t expect to become invisible

How often do you read about men going grey? I’ll hazard a guess: never! Men with grey hair are distinguished, at the top of their game, all George Clooneys now.

The reality could not be more different for women. From the moment we viciously pluck that first grey hair from our scalp, we go into battle mode. For who wants to be described as an old woman, a stereotype that demeans and disparages?

Even in older age, women, their bodies and their behaviour are still policed if they do not conform to patriarchal norms.Credit: Stocksy

Women, of course, are practised at being at war with themselves: the tummy, the bottom, the thighs, the breasts. No part of the body is immune.

It didn’t cross my mind when I discovered those early grey threads that I should do as nature intended. Instead, I camouflaged what is often the first sign of ageing, as if ageing was somehow shameful.

Ten years on, I had a rethink. I shunned the expensive six-weekly hairdresser visits, the long hours in the chair and the white line that appeared well before my next appointment. I went defiantly grey.

I would no longer be ashamed of growing old.

I was soon to discover that in a youth-worshipping and age- and death-denying culture, grey hair is associated with physical and mental decline.

I was 50-ish then and glowingly youthful, so when I started noticing a change in attitude, I thought I might be imagining things. Was that lovely young person taking my coffee order really speaking to me at a slowed pace, each word enunciated, volume turned up? Or was it just that I’d ordered a cappuccino? I mean, who drinks cappuccinos these days?!

I was vaguely amused to begin with. Gosh, people think I’m old. But as my hair became more and more grey, the way I was treated and spoken to became less and less tolerable.

If I wasn’t being called “dear”, it was “sweetie” or “pet”. “Darl” was a particular favourite of tradies. Was I supposed to be flattered when men, with a smile and a wink, addressed me as “young lady”?

In another small act of rebellion, I decided to let my hair grow long, almost down-to-my-waist long.

Shortly afterwards, I was in New York for the first time, out with my long-term partner at night. I was posing, light-heartedly, for photos, when two men, early 40s perhaps, walked past, one muttering, “She thinks she’s young again.”

I felt suddenly old and foolish, that I had no right to be on that New York street doing what couples do. How dare I be flirty and playful in public! How confronting that a woman of my age might want to feel and look sexy! Go back to being invisible!

A small indignity but the small indignities pile up. They also remind us that, even in older age, women, their bodies and their behaviour are still policed and derided if they do not conform to patriarchal norms.

It’s not that men aren’t subject to ageist stereotypes, but when ageism – so normalised, we do not see it – collides with sexism, it is particularly cruel to women. Our bodies that have birthed and nurtured, that have been commodified and exploited, are now reviled. Old and ugly, crones and bats, the erotic gaze full of contempt.

Admittedly, there is freedom in not being noticed or judged or rated. But with invisibility comes the danger of not being seen or heard. We only need to look to the recent Royal Commission into Aged Care to see where that leads.

Never more did I realise how invisible I had become than when selecting a few pieces of fruit in that most innocuous of settings: a supermarket. A man in his 30s, nicely turned out, plastic bag at the ready, stood beside me, so close our shoulders touched. He reached in front of me, aggressive and intimidating, his arm almost colliding with my face. I immediately stepped back, fearing I might lose my footing, not because of my age, but because he had invaded my space.

I expected he would apologise profusely, he hadn’t seen me, his head somewhere else. Sorry! But he did not apologise, he continued to carefully, and leisurely, make his selection, me stupidly mute. Once finished, he walked away without a glance in my direction.

It was a hollowing moment. I ran my hands over my body to make sure I did actually exist, smoothed my hair wondering if my appearance had somehow insulted him. Perhaps he really hadn’t seen me? I was doing as women so often do, looking to myself to find an explanation for his behaviour.

It was a hollowing moment. I ran my hands over my body to make sure I did actually exist, smoothed my hair wondering if my appearance had somehow insulted him.

TRISH BOLTON

I am, unfortunately, not alone. Any woman over the age of 40 has anecdotes that tell of being patronised, infantilised, made to feel irrelevant. Yet most women my age and older live lives full of meaning and purpose.

It wasn’t until I began submitting my book to publishers that I reconsidered my decision to go grey. When there were so many talented young writers, complexions luminous, bodies emblazoned with creative tatts, 10 books ahead of them, why would anyone publish me? Hot or old? The choice seemed obvious.

Happily, I was wrong.

Whatever colour a woman’s hair is, we are who we have always been (only older) and we need what we all need: to be valued, to be heard, to be seen.

And, if you look closely, you will see, as Barbie did, that “old” women are beautiful, too.

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