She tells me what I want to hear;
puckering into the glass, I primp,
outlining thin lips with red dye,
shading eyes and rouging cheeks.
Pretty, she says with coy shine.
The heat from my toy gun dryer
burns already frail follicles as I smooth
sometimes blonde hair into waves.
No gray, she whispers, imitating.
She doesn’t blink when frizz spews,
doesn’t snicker when I flick tartar
from minty floss into her silver eyes.
When I shimmy brick hips to zip
a long pleated skirt, she says oooh.
Ignoring grooved stretch marks
when draped beneath a pink towel,
she favors shoulder muscles, and like
a true friend, reminds me—too much
bundt cake—with a wink as I close
the noncompliant bathroom door.
Pouting recently about new gray strands silvering through my hair, I now realize how many good things come with age. Eric and I traveled back to Quebec City, where we first visited together 10 years ago. Looking back over pictures, old and new, I see that Quebec is just as beautiful as ever. I’m older, happier, more fulfilled, more in love, and thankfully, thinner with out all that 32-year old baby fat. Bring on the gray.