Somewhere about fifty-seven, she stopped being a woman. Turn into a silver haired being instead. Not a person with silver hair; that would mean the hair was an adornment, something added to the basic her. No, the silver hair ate her identification entirely.
She now was only silver haired thing. Typically unnoticed. Extremely visible among others. Simply interest in this silver haired thing that used to matter. She had been dying it for years. Fought the gray as though an enemy invasion, a signal of capitulation. Then she suddenly stopped one day during lockout.
Her daughter found it elegant. Her kid claimed it made her appear elderly. Neither of them understood the gist of things. The silver hair was change, not age. Turning natural. Becoming moonlight and aluminum and the hue of wisdom in fairy stories. Becoming anything other than a woman, a mother, what she had been designated. Silver haired object.
