I was fifteen when I found my first grey hair.

It was a Sunday afternoon, the day reserved for my weekly hair reset, and I was beginning the routine Black women learn almost as muscle memory, washing, brushing, and sectioning. I was standing in front of the mirror completing my hair routine, moving carefully through each section, then suddenly, there it was: a lone silver strand shining brightly and defiantly in contrast to the others.

At first, I was confused. I told myself that it had to be a loose thread or a piece of fluff that had somehow gotten caught in my hair. But when I tugged at it, I realised it was rooted firmly in my scalp. I plucked it out, half fascinated and half horrified, holding tangible proof that my body had decided to do something unexpected and change before I was ready for it to.