“Have you let yourself go?” My friend asks, stroking my hair.
“Yes I have,” I reply, to her disappointed glare.
“Never mind,” she says quickly. “Let’s get this grey mess corrected.”
Frog marched to the salon, her own demons projected.
“Have you let yourself go?” My aunt accuses, controlling.
“Yes I have,” I declare, her beady eyes rolling.
She adds: “This is one mistake you can forget.
We’ll soon have you back to that lovely brunette.”
“Have you let yourself go?” the stylist asks with pity.
“What a shame, because you are really quite pretty!
Give me some time and and we’ll soon have you fixed.”
I let myself go home before the chemicals are mixed.
“Have you let yourself go?” They ask, with concern, intervention.
For themselves, not for you, because they dare not mention,
grey, silver, age, or convention,
Because it’s awkward, uncomfortable, best ignore the tension.
Yes! I’ve let myself go to all those places we’re told,
We cannot go until we’re “really, really old”.
When we may be allowed to say that women go grey.
But I will let myself go today. My silvers and me will always stray.
I’ve let myself go to so many places.
I do not care for disapproving faces.