Gray is a beautiful color. My car is a silver-ish gray and I love it even more than the 3 red ones I had before. It’s interesting how preferences change as we get older.

For years I’d tell people, “I don’t like the color red, but I like driving red cars.” It intrigues me how this sudden color preference shift coincides with a time in my life when I’m subconsciously checking for gray hairs in my reflection. I’ve always allowed my hair to define me. At the very least, my hair color has remained a constant indicator of what makes me “me”—one of many, but somehow the most pervasive.

I am a redhead, and I’ve identified myself as such my whole life. I’ve always been proud to call myself a “ginger.” Possibly even more ridiculous, I used to love the stereotypes—even the crude ones. Somehow I just knew there was absolutely nothing wrong with being a ginger. In fact, I’ve always been proud of it—even though I had nothing at all to do with it.

I’ve had people complimenting my hair my whole life. It definitely happened more when I was younger. I guess little-girl redheads are more appealing than middle-aged ones. I was even featured in the Lifestyle section of our local newspaper when I was 5, just for having red hair! My dad kept a stack of the issue in our hall closet for years. Until one day they just weren’t there anymore…But I digress…

Beauty, in general, has been at the forefront of many un-inspireds goals throughout my life. I’ve always felt an aching need to be beautiful—to look in the mirror and appreciate what I see. I can remember sometimes feeling that appreciation, with a face full of makeup and my hair fully flexing, but not on any normal morning. Pretty much daily, I think about beauty and how I’m changing, and I hate it. Why must I be so vain? But also, why must I shame myself for that thinking process when society has been feeding it the whole time?

Truth is, most days I struggle to look at myself in the mirror…or even the reflection bouncing off my phone before the screen lights up. It’s no doubt my face is changing…no matter how much I try to deny that to myself. It’s even more heartbreaking thinking about how my hair will someday breakup with its pigment.

I recall the day I drove that silver Mazda up into the driveway for the very first time. It’s like I didn’t know who I was anymore but in a good way. I didn’t know who to be. I felt myself tempted to change my name, to something like “Shannon” or “Luna.” It reminded me of the color of a wolf’s fur, so in a way, it was also a shoutout to my “howling at the moon” days: The exact section of years I sometimes feel have been lost forever due to trauma—the part of myself I’ve been trying to reconnect with for so long. The change felt welcoming and familiar—like maybe it would be the “thing” to finally pull “her” out of hiding.

Now I can’t help but wonder, when my hair does eventually gray out to the point where I can no longer deny it, will I want to change my name? Will I go wild like I do when creating a character in a virtual world? Maybe dye it purple, or green, or mermaid blue? Will I want to howl at the moon again? Or, will I feel even less connected to myself than I currently do?

And yes, I realize it isn’t necessarily the color itself that we as a society look down on. After all, there’s nothing whatsoever inherently wrong with the color gray. It’s beautiful. It’s strong and resilient and capable. It pairs well with black and everyone knows black pairs well with everything. Many people out there are even proudly pulling it off!

Despite that we as a society tend to associate the color gray with getting older, I fear there’s something else that happens when we all turn gray: We begin to fade into the wallpaper of life, right along with our neighbors. And for someone who’s identified with red for so long, the thought of that is deafening.

I hate that I love it when someone compliments my hair color. I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve had an older woman come up to me, compliment my hair, and tell me they used to be a ginger, too—in a tone that breaks my heart every time, as if they’re speaking from a place of deep longing. I can’t imagine ever getting to a place where I start saying “I used to be this” in a longing way. Wouldn’t I still be a ginger, regardless? Aren’t I fiery and fun and a little bit crazy, no matter my hair color? Couldn’t I use dye to turn it even REDDER?

I’ve also had people ask me if my hair color is real more times than I can count, as if they don’t know the difference between my rusty red-ish orange and some burgundy masterpiece out of a box. That one used to offend me, honestly…

Look, I understand I must accept that we’re all climbing the same damn life ladder, and that aging is a part of that. I guess I need to dig out a spark from somewhere else. Maybe even, goddess forbid, a non-physical trait I have. Maybe I can treasure it as much as I have treasured my Ginger-ness all these years—because I think I need that. I think I need to remain an “individual.” I think I need to be unique, or risk being folded into the background at the hands of time.