I’m 63. I wish my hair would turn gray.
My mother’s turned when she was 50.
I feel like I’m never going to get old.
Not thinking getting old.
This is an entertaining way to cut through the days.
The look for gray when it will not come, like vampires licking your bandaged wounds.
The scissors keep snipping at the gray, snow flakes sticking together.
They fall like long thin knives on the apron hiding an old lap.
The stylist has her phone electrifying the air in synch with the scissoring.
Is she sending photographs of me losing my covering?
My own gray keeps me wondering if I lived too hard.
Birds don’t turn gray.
Plus, they sing all the time.
Might baldness tell me I never lived?
No dyeing can upheave my fate.
It is your turn one day when facing the mirror your parents left behind.
You will see that wrinkling destiny that detoured them from a lost beauty.
Their attractions for one another scream out loud in the later years.
But some learned level of love overlooks what is falling.
And singing is heard.