Graying hair in 20s: reflections on family, self-acceptance

I’ve been graying since I was in my early 20s. I still remember spotting those first strands and feeling a wave of self-consciousness. I was young. I was gay. I was figuring out who I was. And suddenly, I was also dealing with this physical reminder that I was "aging" earlier than expected.

At 22, it felt jarring. At 24, it felt unfair. By 27, I had a full-on routine of noticing, checking, and sometimes plucking or dyeing them. I’d run my fingers through my hair just to check if any new grays had popped up.

When I think back on it, it’s not just about the gray hairs themselves — it’s about the emotional weight of it all. Hair is one of the most public parts of your identity, but also one of the most personal. It’s something you see every day in the mirror, and it reflects back something more than just "hair."

I wonder how my ancestors felt about their own hair. Did my grandfather feel the same self-consciousness when his grays started to show? Did my great-grandfather? Did they even think about it at all?

My family didn’t have the luxury of focusing on small insecurities like gray hair. They were too busy surviving, building, and fighting for a future. My family grew up poor. They had farmland. They had to figure it all out as they went. So maybe worrying about hair was a privilege. Maybe my insecurities about it are tied to the fact that I have the space to care.

But I still wonder — what if I had the chance to ask them about it? What would they have said about graying early? Would they have shrugged it off or shared some secret remedies? Did they eat specific foods to keep their hair healthy? Did they have special oils, balms, or routines that were passed down but somehow lost over time?

These are the kinds of questions I think about when I reflect on why Kinnect exists. It’s about more than memories — it’s about capturing those everyday "small but big" moments. Not just the weddings, the graduations, or the anniversaries. But the little, seemingly insignificant details — like how someone cared for their hair or how they coped with change.

I know for a fact that if Kinnect had existed when I was growing up, I’d have loved to scroll through stories from my grandparents and see how they related to their own grays.

Hair has always been a part of cultural identity, and for me, it’s no different. As a Latino, born in Chicago, and raised by a family chasing the American dream, I didn’t grow up with products that were designed for my hair type.

It’s something that, at the time, I didn’t have the language for, but I felt it. Most of the TV shows I watched — think Boy Meets World and other '90s classics — featured white, straight-haired kids with effortless styles. None of those styles worked for me. My hair is textured, thick, and, at times, dry. It's what some would call Afro-Latino hair.

I didn’t have role models on TV showing me how to take care of it, and I definitely didn’t have access to products that actually worked for me.

So, I did what a lot of kids with textured hair did back then — I cut it short. If it’s short, there’s less to manage. If it’s short, I can avoid feeling "different" or "messy."

But at some point, short wasn’t enough. I wanted to try something new, so I decided to experiment with relaxers.

If you’ve never used a relaxer before, here’s the quick version: it’s a chemical treatment that straightens curly or coiled hair, but it comes with a smell that makes you wonder if you’re burning your scalp off. You apply it, you wait, and then you wash it out. The result? Straighter, more "manageable" hair — but at the cost of health, texture, and patience.

Looking back, I realize that process was me trying to conform to what I thought hair "should" look like. It wasn’t until later that I started learning about the importance of hair health and hydration. And let me tell you, it’s still a process.

I’ve spent way too many nights Googling:

• "How to hydrate dry hair"
• "How to stop gray hair from spreading"

I’ve read that eating berries might help. I’ve read that certain oils can make a difference. I’ve tried natural treatments, DIY masks, and, of course, the inevitable drugstore quick fixes.

Some of it works. Most of it doesn’t.

Hair reflections as a legacy tool

As I write this, I’m in Cape Town, South Africa, thinking about how everything comes full circle. Hair is not just a personal journey for me anymore. It’s a generational one.

I think about my brothers. We have the same biological father, but each of us has a slightly different hair texture. For most of us, it’s textured, thick, and unpredictable. But one of my brothers has a completely different hair texture.

It’s wild to think that even in the same family, we all experience our hair differently.

Hair has always been personal, but I’m realizing that it’s also part of our family story. It’s part of our shared experience. I think about how products like Shea Moisture built a brand on the concept of "homegrown haircare" — the idea that families, specifically Black and Afro-Latino families, have always passed down hair secrets, tips, and remedies.

That’s why I believe Kinnect is going to be special. I think about how Kinnect could one day be the tool that helps people capture these stories. Not just the "big" stories, but the everyday insights, like the best way to hydrate curly hair or the homemade oils your grandmother used to apply.

These are the kinds of details that don’t show up in formal genealogy reports. You won’t find this in your 23andMe report.

If I had the chance to document the hair stories of my family — my mom, my grandfather, my brothers, my future kids — I think I’d do it. I’d want them to know that it’s okay to feel unsure sometimes. That it's okay to be self-conscious. That it's okay to change your mind.

I’d tell them that I still don’t have it all figured out. And that maybe that’s the point.

Final reflections

Hair is not just hair. It’s culture. It’s identity. It’s family. And it’s change.

For me, it’s been a marker of growth — not just in the way I look but in the way I see myself. I’m learning to embrace my grays, even though some days I don’t love them. I’m learning to ask better questions about my family’s stories and routines.

And I’m learning to give myself space to feel uncomfortable about it all.

I hope that as Kinnect grows, it becomes a place where families can document these kinds of stories. The ones that aren’t glamorous. The ones that feel small but aren’t.

I hope my kids (if I have them) will be able to scroll through a Kinnect Book one day and see my story about graying hair. Maybe they’ll read about the products I tried, the relaxers I used, and the insecurities I felt.

Maybe they’ll see themselves in it.

And that, to me, is worth documenting.

abrazos,
omar