Gray's anatomy; What happens when a few (very) premature white hairs turn into a head of salt and pepper.

Byline: Eve Claxton

The first gray hairs barely registered. I was eighteen. I wasn't worried about looking older; in fact, at that age, I craved it. A couple of silvery strands here and there weren't a problem-they were easy to find, wavy in texture so that they stood out from my naturally straight dark-brown hair. I'd simply pluck them out with two fingers.

At 20, I cut my hair short for the first time, parting it on the side with a slick of wax. By now, I'd observed, the silver strands were increasing in number around my temples and at the crown, no more than a few dozen or so. The idea of making the rest of my hair match these aberrations appealed. I decided to bleach my buzz cut-loving the novelty of being a Sebergesque blonde. For the next two years the experimentation continued. I briefly changed the tone of the bleach with various washes, going a coppery strawberry, then an ill-advised fuchsia, and even platinum-gray. As I started to tire of peroxide, and my hair took on a dangerously dry, parched texture, I calculated that it would be best to remove the bleach completely, so I went to a barbershop and asked to be shorn, like Natalie Portman in V for Vendetta. Although initially I loved being liberated from my locks, the look soon proved a little severe, and I grew it back to a prettier short cut, noticing more salt than pepper than the last time I'd looked.

It wasn't until I was 27, newly single, and about to enter the dating pool that I looked in a mirror and wondered if my natural look was making me look older. On a whim, I ran to the pharmacy and picked up my first package of dark-brown dye. The dye didn't only cover the gray, it improved the texture overall-my cut, by now an ear-length bob, looked glossy, styled, groomed. Dyeing quickly became an addiction. The moment my roots began to show, I longed for more color to cover them. I found a colorist and would go every few months to sit under the heater, the scent of ammonia in the salon air.

Then, about four years later, came a dreadful realization. I'd just returned from a trip to Spain. I'd had my roots done before I left and thought my hair looked its most sleek and touchable. But when I scrutinized my vacation photos, I was taken aback. There in the gentle Mediterranean sunlight, my face looked pale and haggard. My dark-brown hair-my "natural color"-seemed harsh and unnatural against my skin. Despite my attempts to cover up signs of aging, I looked old. And I was only 31.

My colorist suggested chestnut streaks to break up the brown,

but I had other ideas. I'd become tired of the frequency with which my regrowth appeared and the brassy redness of the dye at the roots as it began to fade. I had no idea what my natural hair looked like after coloring it for five years, but I was intrigued.