High stay the first threads
Of gray that would populate my head
I never thought about them with dread
All though I wondered if I could grow some natty ones
What started blond
Went the way of brown
Now it’s almost white as a ghost.
Not really, ghosts aren’t there,
But my hair is and it’s
More confusing than traffic in London
With all the directions it wants to go.
It’s had many styles,
Mom’s bowl cut,
The 1970s and 80s down the middle part,
Shaved, long, moussed, and gelled.
It’s a bit of a trademark
For everywhere I go
People want to comment on the craziness
Resting on top of my head.
“Is it real?”
“It makes you look like…”
“Do you color it?”
“Why don’t you color it?”
I don’t want to.
It’s a bit of a caricature
For every so often I dramatically change it up
Greased down Pat Riley, spiked up Billy Idol,
Shaved down Gomer Pyle
Because I can.
Younger me would have said to “eff” with people
But I’m too mature to say that anymore.
This summer was the one of cauliflower,
No gel and a visor
Bunches of white sticking straight up
Like something in the grocery store
Few knew what to do
Except comment on what grew up there
I didn’t know what to do
Except wonder why people have so much interest
Interest in how other people “should” look
Interest in telling other people how they “should” look
Interest in masking hurtful comments in praise
Interest in stuff so insignificant
Don’t get me wrong I’ve been blessed
With good hair genes
But believe that it also is a curse
For my hair has many minds of its own
Cowlicks here, cowlicks there
Elmer’s best will barely keep it tight
Any sweat triggers a spring like effect
That sets the follicles free
So I guess
That when you see the manic mane
Just let it be, it cannot handle being talked about
In fact, just let the comments rest where everyone is concerned