A few weeks ago, I colored my hair—
or tried; I wanted to

slash a bloodletting, bleed myself
of who I’d always been; I wanted to

erase every outlived strand and dye
it silver, the likeness of transience,

fluidity, change, wisdom, hard-
earned through accumulation

of years, trials, perseverance,
and lessons, to announce, or enact

ritual of re-creation—but
she didn’t see what I envisioned—

I was left, bearing a faded shade
of blue that washed to blonde

too quickly, so quickly, beneath
rays and realities of summer sun.

Now, it’s time again to consider
the length and weight of this crown

of dead cells cascading—whether
I, again, accept what appears to be

me, though but a facet, a single color,
or allow myself to trust another

again, to do the undoable and see—
highlight—what no one ever seems

to see or believe:  That I am worth more
than the cost or the hue of my hair.