My hair glows
for it is blonde.
From the day I sprouted follicles
I carried a golden hue.
It’s true. These Aryan looks
(as seen in history books)
make my blue eyes blue.
Not bad for a West Coast Jew
who has an upper hand.
But I never brandish it in spite.
(Just to remind them when I’m right!)
My hair fades.
At fifty, I’ve become a shaded gray.
Had I heeded my father’s warning,
I would have seen this coming.
Age has a nasty way of relegating
us all to the same playing field.
Every patch of gray should yield
a wisdom beyond our years.
But it just makes my ears seem
to protrude a bit more. Not such
an eyesore to what was in store.
My hair departs
and has become a memory.
Hair today; gone tomorrow!
Such is my sorrow since
my hair on hiatus now takes the color of skin
as in, “Why in the hell didn’t
my father tell me of THIS cruel joke?”
It’s like a craggy jab at my virility!
My pate craves for warmth, instead
I get a buff and polish. Now I shine
despite my stressed tress whine!
© JPW 2013