I swear, I blinked and suddenly there they were, tiny streaks of silver glinting under the bathroom light.
At first, it was just one or two strands. I’d spot them in the mirror, pluck them out with surgical precision, and feel a strange sense of satisfaction. (Why was pulling white hairs so oddly therapeutic? I don’t know, but it was.)
For a while, it was manageable. A strand here, a strand there. No big deal.
But the big 4-0 came knocking, and with it, the floodgates opened. Suddenly, my scalp was in overdrive, churning out white hairs like it was running some kind of production quota.
Overnight, plucking was no longer an option unless I wanted to accelerate the thinning process. That’s when reality hit me: either I dive into the endless cycle of dyeing, or I embrace the white hair revolution.
Guess which path I took?
The Hair Dye Detour
Let me back up a little. I did try dyeing my hair once.
It was a spur-of-the-moment decision at Watsons, where I picked up a cheap box of GlamWorks hair dye for about ₱50. I went home excited, gloves on, ready to transform myself into a glossy-haired goddess.
And for a brief moment, it worked. The dark brown-black looked sleek, and I felt like I had pressed rewind on the aging process.
But here’s the thing: that feeling was short-lived.
The color faded fast.
The roots grew in quicker than weeds.
The cycle of re-dyeing felt exhausting.
Do I really want to spend hours bent over a sink, gloves on, smelling like chemicals, just to hide what my body is naturally doing? The answer, quite quickly, became a resounding no.
I never made it to the salon chair either. For one, the costs add up. And two, the idea of spending half a day under foils and hair dryers sounded more like a punishment than pampering.
So I stopped. No more boxes of dye. No salon schedules. Just me, my natural hair, and a trusty hair bun to disguise the explosion of salt and pepper strands.
Character Over Perfection
At first, I thought white hair would make me look “old” in a way I wasn’t ready for.
Isn’t that what society drills into us? Gray and white strands are framed as the enemy, something to be battled with touch-ups, highlights, and endless “anti-aging” products.
But somewhere along the way, my mindset shifted. I realized white hair doesn’t just signal age. It signals life, experience, and character.
When I catch my reflection now, I see the difference. Sure, my face is changing, and my hair has transformed into its salt-and-pepper phase. But the eyes staring back at me still feel like the same 20-something me.
Inside, I’m still that person. Aging feels like this odd split-screen: the outside shifting and marking time, while the inside still feels young and curious.
And honestly, I’ve grown to like it. White hair softens me. It’s proof that I’ve lived through challenges, laughter, and countless cups of coffee.
Crossing the Line Into Not Caring
Here’s the real gift that came with turning 40: I crossed an invisible line where other people’s opinions stopped carrying so much weight.
Before, I might have worried about what coworkers, neighbors, or random strangers thought of my appearance. Should I look “younger”? Should I keep up with trends? Should I cover the white?
Now, at 42, I feel an almost rebellious freedom in not giving a damn.
Aging is a privilege. I know people who never made it to 40. I know people who spend thousands on cosmetic procedures trying to preserve an illusion of youth.
Me? I don’t have the money, the patience, or the interest. So I choose to accept what time is giving me: the chance to age naturally, gracefully, and unapologetically.
And let me tell you, it feels incredible.
The Economics of Vanity
Maintaining dyed hair is expensive. Not just in money, but in time.
Salon visits eat up hours.
Box dyes need constant retouching.
Products to keep dyed hair from drying out add more costs.
Add it all up, and you’re basically paying a monthly subscription fee to fight biology.
I did the math. Over a year, even just quarterly salon visits could easily add up to tens of thousands of pesos. That’s money I’d rather spend on good food, travel, or even paying bills.
For me, vanity lost the economic argument.
Never a Fashionista
Here’s another truth: I’ve never been a fashionista.
Some women love makeup, hair styling, and fashion. That’s their art form, their joy. For me, it’s never been a big deal. I was never the type to match lipstick shades with outfits or follow hair trends.
So really, why would I start now in my 40s?
Instead, I lean into practicality. My hair bun hides the white explosion while still looking put-together. My low-maintenance routine saves me hours every month. And best of all, I feel like myself.
White Hair as Achievement
When I think about it, my white hair is like a badge of honor.
It’s proof that I’ve made it this far. Every strand is a marker of survival, through late nights, stress, joy, heartbreak, and everything in between.
There’s also gratitude. Every time I see those silver threads, I remind myself: I woke up today. I’m still here. Another day to spend with family, work on my passions, and experience life.
That feels like an achievement worth celebrating.
If I Could Tell My Younger Self…
If I could sit down with my younger self, the one carefully plucking out single white hairs in her 30s, I’d tell her this:
There’s nothing to be afraid of. Aging is normal. It’s not a punishment, it’s a privilege.
Stop worrying about how you look in other people’s eyes, because those same people are too busy worrying about themselves.
Be grateful for every day, love yourself, and be kind to others. That’s what really matters.
My Evolving Definition of Beauty
In my 20s, beauty meant perfection: smooth skin, shiny hair, no blemishes.
In my 30s, beauty started to mean balance: between work, family, and self-care.
Now, in my 40s, beauty means authenticity.
Natural beauty will always win over surgically enhanced beauty in my book. Not because surgery is “bad,” but because authenticity feels more grounded and real.
I admire women who own their age, who let their lines, curves, and yes, white hair, tell their story.
That’s the kind of beauty I aspire to now.
A Celebration, Not a Defense
I’m not writing this to defend my choice not to dye my hair. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with dyeing, just like there’s nothing wrong with not dyeing.
This is simply my way of celebrating the freedom that comes with saying, “This is me. Take it or leave it.”
At 42, I’ve decided I’m not going to spend my precious time and energy hiding the signs of a life well-lived. Instead, I’m going to wear them with pride.
What About You?
So that’s my little love letter to my white hair and the freedom of being in my 40s.
If you’re reading this and you’ve been struggling with the mirror, I hope my story reminds you that you’re not alone and that there’s joy on the other side of acceptance.
Now I’m curious: What’s your relationship with aging and appearance? Have you had your own “crossing the line” moment where you stopped caring about others’ opinions?
Share your story, I’d love to hear it!