From New York to Los Angeles: The Hair Dye Dilemma

Once, I spent several years in New York writing a young adult novel, but eventually, I felt the tug of Los Angeles. I was eager to shift gears and explore the world of screenwriting.

A friend introduced me to an experienced writer in LA. I shared my aspirations during our initial call.

“How old are you?” he asked, bluntly.

“I’m 49,” I replied.

He responded, “That’s too old. You can’t be 50 in Hollywood. You have to lie about your age.”

He inquired whether I had gray hair, to which I admitted I did. His advice? Dying it was a must.

I countered, “But George Clooney has gray hair. Isn’t it noticeable?”

He insisted everyone dyes their hair in LA and recommended finding a good stylist.

He continued to detail the Hollywood landscape, warning of idea theft and the pitfalls of fake friendships. While I was somewhat familiar with the dangers, his proclamation about age struck a chord. “You can’t be 50 in Hollywood” felt particularly jarring.

Thinking About Age

After our conversation, I pondered the age issue. I had once “adjusted” my age while promoting my book. At a festival, all the other young adult authors were at least a decade younger than me. So, I shaved a few years off my Facebook age for good measure.

But LA intensified my insecurities about aging. My first encounter with a screenwriter revealed a 24-year-old looking impossibly youthful. That night, I trimmed three more years from my birthday on Facebook.

Now, I was 41 according to that platform, 44 to my New York publisher, and 49 to the IRS. Keeping up with these different ages proved challenging, and awkward moments did occur, particularly on dates.

The Gray Hair Conundrum

In Hollywood, where lying about age is seen as a form of self-care, I soon realized most judgments were based on looks. I reflected on my appearance. Was it really time to consider dyeing my hair?

A trip to Ralphs landed me a box of Clairol Nice’n Easy in espresso brown, which was closest to my natural color. Setting up in my bathroom, I mixed the dye and applied it, albeit messily.

The dye felt like it was burning my scalp. Once washed out, my hair had a shiny finish. Did I look younger? Maybe. But a part of me couldn’t shake the feeling that I looked like a clown.

Upon returning to New York, my female friends immediately noticed the change. One exclaimed, “It’s true what they say. You look 10 years younger!” Surprisingly, her observation came from quite a distance.

Another friend didn’t believe that I had dyed it until she examined it closely. Even I was taken aback by my new reflection. “Who is that?”

Professional vs. DIY

Back in LA, I spotted a sign for a salon offering hair dye and cuts for $80. Perhaps a professional was the way to go. But it turned out to be less luxurious than I hoped. The stylist was rough, and I spent 40 minutes with foil in my hair, on display for passersby.

Ultimately, the results were no better than my self-dyeing debut for $9.99!

Still, I kept at it, touching up every six weeks as instructed. I noticed more men dyeing their hair while at the beach or even on screen. It felt like I was hardly alone in this endeavor. In fact, I think most men in TV or films seemed to have their hair colored.

I became more attuned to the dye culture, particularly among women—most of whom seemed to be over 30. The silver lining? In LA, no one looked down on men dyeing their hair. It seemed that doing so meant you were employable.

A Tale of Two Coasts

This attitude contrasted sharply with New York, where gray hair often signified sophistication. Wealthy, well-dressed men with silver locks were admired. In fact, some female friends in New York pointed out that the gray suited me better than the dye.

Yet, vanity tugged at me, and upon my return to LA, I shaved my head, embracing middle age. When my gray returned, one acquaintance remarked that I looked far better without the dye, adding that it made me appear untrustworthy—like a used car salesman.

That feedback was oddly reassuring. True contentment arrived after I retired from writing and moved back to my hometown of Portland, enjoying life’s simplicity once more.

In retirement, age became less of a priority, and being cool didn’t matter. I could simply be an older man with gray hair—like everyone else. On Facebook, though, I retained a slightly younger version of myself thanks to those birthday edits.