HOMICIDE BRUNETTE

 

A secret fear I often had

is that I would be like Dad

to this extent; it was his fate

to have white hair at twenty-eight

(in this respect, but in no other

I hoped to take after my Mother);

and seeming to confirm the Worst

at twenty-four I found my first;

a solitary strand of white

which caused many a sleepless night.

 

At forty four, the matter’s serious;

a sign that Age intends to weary us,
starting at the temples, here,

and working backwards, year by year.
In corporate life, my spouse maintains

there’s gravitas, and even brains

implied by presence of some greys,

that could be even worth a raise;

which I dismiss with oaths, and many,

for his dark locks do not show any.

 

I’ve sought, within the salon, latterly,

the ministrations of kind Natalie

who mixes Chestnut with Dark Blonde

and takes my locks a step beyond

the mousy shade I had from birth.

It costs more than it’s really worth,

but I will pay for things tonsorial;

to take care of my crowning glory’ll

help to raise my self-esteem.

I’m happy with my colour scheme.

 

Begone! dull grey! I won’t unearth it.

I colour it because I’m worth it.

Dyed by another’s hand, you bet -

I am a Homicide Brunette.