“Let me just get one,” he says, as he looks at me from above.
“Leave it. Otherwise it’ll grow in and stick straight up,” I reply, yanking my head this way, and that.

**

“Why didn’t you tell me about the streak/patch of grays?” I ask.
“I like your gray hairs,” she replies. She is earnest.
I am like fuckin’ Stacy London over here.

**

“There are just so many,” they say.
“I know.” I say back. I smile. I run my fingers through my hair.

**

“Should I dye it for the wedding?” I think aloud as I look in the mirror.
I pull it back. Worse. I put it down.

**

They are my battle scars. They are my experience.
They are my tales. They are me.

**

I’m not going to dye it, I think. Not me. I am proud.
I smooth down the curly ones, looking in the mirror.

**

There is a streak, in my bangs. It is five hairs, maybe more.
It is cool, I tell myself. Hipster even (though I do not strive for this status.)

**

You may give me gray hairs before my time…
(so kiss me when you come home, on my lips)