I stopped dyeing my hair last spring. Not because I suddenly “embraced my inner silver fox” (barf), but because I ran out of f*cks the same week I ran out of root touch-up. My stylist asked if I was sure. I said, “Watch this.” And then I went to brunch. Nobody died. In fact, a 28-year-old told me I looked “powerful.” I wanted to hug her and also ask if she knew where I left my reading glasses.
By Terry McMillan’s fictional best friend (and yours, too) 50 something mag
Because here’s the real truth, darling: I stopped dyeing my hair last spring
Then one morning, somewhere around 52, you wake up at 3:47 a.m. to pee for the second time, stub your toe on the nightstand, and realize: I don’t want to be less anymore. I want to be obnoxiously, gloriously, inconveniently more. Here is what nobody tells you about the second half: It is not a decline. It is a rebellion. I said, “Watch this
— From the editors of 50 Something Magazine. Because you’re not old. You’re experienced.
For the first fifty years, the equation was simple: Subtract the belly from the brunch. Subtract the opinion from the meeting if you want to keep your job. Subtract the need, the noise, the nerve. We were trained to fold ourselves into smaller, quieter, more digestible versions of who we actually were. Wear the beige. Laugh at the joke that wasn’t funny. Apologize for the parking spot. Apologize for existing in a room.