Embracing white hairs

By Noel Galon de Leon

When I turned thirty-five, my white hairs became more noticeable. What used to appear only on my head slowly began to show itself on my chest as well. The realization did not arrive suddenly, but it settled into my awareness with certainty, like a truth that could no longer be ignored. It was not dramatic, yet it was undeniable. Something in me was changing, and time had chosen my hair as its marker.

This, I thought, must be how it feels when aging finally introduces itself. My first instinct was resistance. I wanted to pluck every white strand with tweezers or surrender to black hair dye, to restore an image of youth that once felt secure. The desire to erase the evidence was strong, driven by fear rather than vanity.

One afternoon, while drinking coffee in a small café in Iloilo, I paused. I was reading a manuscript for the 22nd San Agustin Writers Workshop, where I had been invited as a panelist. Surrounded by movement, voices, and the rhythm of the city, I made a decision to stop fighting what I saw in the mirror. White hair, I realized, is inevitable. No effort can truly stop time from leaving its mark.

My thoughts drifted to my father. When he was still alive and I was much younger, I often saw him dye his hair black. He did it himself, carefully and regularly, every week. My father had beautiful hair, soft and straight, falling naturally, much like the hair of my nephew Lukas today. It was something he took pride in and protected with discipline.

He disliked seeing white hair on his head. The moment a strand appeared, it was concealed. My father was handsome, and perhaps he believed white hair would change how the world saw him. At the time, I never asked why it mattered so much to him. As a child, I simply accepted it as one of the habits adults carry without explanation.

Now I understand him better. White hair carries fear with it, a reminder of vulnerability. It announces that time is moving forward and that the body cannot remain unchanged. Aging confronts us with limits we would rather not acknowledge.

In the Philippines, this fear is intensified. Growing old here is rarely comforting. Our healthcare system is fragile and often inaccessible. Many government agencies and public establishments are not designed to accommodate the elderly. Even simple tasks can become exhausting challenges.

More than that, aging is frightening in a country weighed down by poverty and corruption. Our elders are rarely given the support they deserve. Pensions are insufficient, assistance is inconsistent, and dignity in old age often feels uncertain. To grow old here is to live with constant concern for survival.

Still, the fear I felt when I noticed my white hairs was not overwhelming. It was reflective. My first real thought was how quickly time had passed. How did I suddenly have so many white hairs? When did this transformation take place?

I began questioning the reasons. Was it stress from managing too many responsibilities? From constantly navigating difficult situations and people? From carrying emotional burdens that never fully disappear? I did not have a clear answer.

Biologically, white hair is a natural process. As we age, the melanocytes in our hair follicles gradually stop producing melanin, the pigment responsible for hair color. Genetics influence this greatly, as do stress, lifestyle, nutrition, and overall health. It is the body adapting to time in its own way.

White hair is not always a sign of decline. It often reflects endurance. It is the result of living fully, of facing pressure, loss, love, and persistence. The body remembers what the mind sometimes tries to move past.

Culturally, white hair holds many meanings. In some traditions, it represents wisdom, experience, and authority. Elders with white hair are regarded as keepers of stories and guidance, living testimonies of survival and memory.

In other contexts, however, white hair is treated as something undesirable, a flaw to be corrected. Youth is celebrated relentlessly, while aging is viewed as loss. We are taught to cling to appearances, fearing invisibility.

Perhaps this is why white hair unsettles us. It forces us to ask difficult questions about identity beyond productivity, beauty, and usefulness as defined by society.

Yet white hair is part of the natural cycle of life. It is transformation made visible. Just as seasons change and leaves shift color, the human body follows its own rhythm. Resisting this truth only deepens anxiety.

White hair should not be feared because it arrives with understanding. It brings perspective and clarity, a deeper awareness of what truly matters. It is not a sign of defeat but of endurance.

To fear white hair is to fear time itself. But time is not an enemy. It shapes us, challenges us, and gives meaning to our experiences. Without it, growth would be impossible.

Accepting white hair does not mean surrender. It means acknowledging reality with honesty. It means choosing presence over illusion and self-respect over denial.

There is nothing wrong with using hair dye. It is a personal choice and a form of self-expression. In this, my father and I differ. He chose concealment, perhaps as a way of protecting himself from uncertainty.

I choose acceptance. I have no plans to dye my hair black. Not because I am fearless, but because I no longer want to fight what is natural.

Each day, I try to understand my white hairs. I see them not as losses but as witnesses. They have accompanied my struggles, my resilience, my griefs, and my achievements. They grew alongside my experiences, appearing as I learned difficult lessons and survived moments I once believed would break me.

White hairs emerge in unexpected places, even in parts of the body we rarely examine. Their presence reminds me that nothing is untouched by time, and that this truth does not need mourning.

Instead, it deserves reflection. What experiences shaped me enough to leave these marks? What stories do they carry that my face does not reveal?

My father’s fear now feels tender rather than misguided. Dyeing his hair may have been his way of asserting control in a world that often offered little security.

I honor him by understanding him, not by repeating him. Acceptance has become my response to fear. White hair does not make me less capable, less desirable, or less relevant. It makes me authentic. It makes me human.

Aging, like writing, is a process of accumulation. Each line and each strand adds depth. Without them, the story would feel incomplete. So I choose to embrace my white hairs. I accept them as companions on this continuing journey. They remind me that I am still here, still living, still becoming.