Grey Hair
Whispers from the Ancient Walkers of the Land
I was born bald, a blank slate in the world of follicles. But soon enough, my German heritage asserted itself, crowning me with a mop of blonde hair that caught the sun like the winter grasslands of the Highveld. That golden phase didn’t last forever, though. Midway through my primary school years, my Boer roots kicked in, and my locks darkened to a rich brown, as if the African soil had seeped into my scalp, grounding me in this land of contrasts.
That brunette era carried me through my time at Maties, those heady university days at Stellenbosch, and into the early grind of my working life. It was reliable, unassuming, much like the routines I fell into. A few years after marrying Kathleen (Kath), though, the inevitable shift began. Strands of silver threaded through the brown, turning my hair salt-and-pepper, just like our beloved Schnauzer, Joey and her predecessor Pepi. Those dogs wore their greys with such dignity, a patchwork of wisdom and whimsy. I figured, why fight it? Grey hair was part of life, a natural progression, like seasons turning or rivers carving canyons. I figured I was Richard Gere. A handsome stud.
I let it all slide, embracing the change without a fuss. But Megs, ever the persuader, and sporting her own elegant grey, had other ideas. I believe her Navajo name would be, Gatherer of White Feathers. She handed me a bottle of John Frieda’s Violet crush for blondes Purple Shampoo, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “It’ll make your hair pop,” she said. “Trust me.” She’s grey too, and somehow she makes it look like a superpower. I tried it, and damn if she wasn’t right, the violet tones brought out a subtle vibrancy, turning the salt-and-pepper into something almost electric, a quiet rebellion against fading into the background.
But what does grey hair really mean? It’s more than pigment loss or a badge of aging. To me, it’s a signal, an awakening. You start to sense the soul in inanimate objects, those quiet presences the Navajo speak of, not in every rock or tool, but in some, and not all the time. It’s as if the greying unlocks a frequency, allowing you to hear whispers from the world around you. Objects aren’t just things; they carry echoes of lives, stories, and spirits waiting to be acknowledged.
This hit home yesterday during a ride on the Cradle loop. I was pedaling with eddy, my trusty bike who is the colour of Sunflowers, unusually silent through the undulating tar roads that morning. We cycled the loop, the wind whipping past, the landscape a blur of acacias and grasslands. eddy didn’t say a word the whole way, content in his mechanical rhythm. Near the end, we paused at the circle by the Rhino Park, that familiar fork in the road. Left would take us back to Biden for some cold beers, a reward for the burn in the legs. I was thinking Mexican beer, a Corona. Right led to the Sterkfontein Caves. I was absolutely leaning toward the beers when eddy decided otherwise. A subtle tug, an unspoken nudge: Go to the caves. Alright, eddy, I thought. Let’s go.
For those unfamiliar, the Sterkfontein Caves are part of the Cradle of Humankind, a heritage site northwest of Joburg where ancient hominid fossils have been unearthed; Mrs. Ples, Little Foot, echoes of our earliest ancestors dating back millions of years. It’s a place where time folds in on itself, where the earth holds secrets of who we were before we were us. Near the end of the road to the caves stands a plinth of weathered rocks I call “the church.” It’s not a real chapel, just a type of man made monument that feels sacred, a spot where I often pull over for a flat white coffee, letting the quiet seep in.
As I cranked past the caves themselves, pushing towards the rock plinth, I heard eddy call out, not in words, but in a vibration, a hum through the frame. What’s up, eddy? Then I felt it: a choir of souls swirling around us, connecting with him like old friends reuniting. They were everywhere in the air, the ground, the stones, patient, ancient presences that had been waiting.
“eddy, do you speak to these when you’re here?” I asked aloud, though I knew the answer was in the feeling.
Yes, always.
I’d never heard it before, this symphony of the unseen. “It’s the souls of all the humanoids that walked here eons ago,” eddy replied. “I am one.”
One day, I’d cycled past with my grey hair catching the light, and I’d answered him without realizing it. That’s when he became eddy, named, alive, a companion rather than just a bike.
“Why are the others still here?” I wondered.
They haven’t had a grey hair answer them yet, replied eddy.
No wonder that “church” at the end of the road to Sterkfontein feels so surreal, like a portal humming with unfinished conversations. Grey hair isn’t just a color; it’s an invitation to listen, to respond, to bridge the gap between the living and the lingering. In that moment, with eddy and the ancients, I felt profoundly connected, not aged, but attuned.
As I sat at Biden sucking on that Corona, I thought that I probably be institutionalized if I told people about my conversations with eddy…
