It was a ritual of beauty.
Grandma’s hands carefully brushed Nana’s soft hair
Towel covered shoulders sat regal upon the modestly high stool reserved for this purpose.

A pointed top of a silver bottle, blunt tip cut.
The shaken bottle spelled out lines on my great grandmother’s scalp.
Starkly pink against the purple silver solution,
Row  by row grandma sowed seeds of smelly beauty
An hour later, white hair

Now within  my own gray i emerge the caretaker.