I'm Trying Something

I told my stylist

I want a change.

He sliced away

a foot and a half of hair.

He cut the strands

of Clairol Light Ash Brown,

the last bit from a box

I bought last spring.

The dyed orange tones died;

they didn’t resonate.

It was the end of a bald-faced lie

on confession day.

The last of my locks

cluttered the floor;

silver notes sang

on my head in a higher key.

My husband sank low

when he saw the newer me.

You 2020’d your hair, he said.

I couldn't disagree.

My tinseled scalp still holds

a few sombre strands,

standing in dark protest

on a head full of hope.

He sees me out of lockstep,

and scrambles to keep up.

He forgot how

hair is always growing.