My New Hair I look at the image,
A reflection in a mirror,
The soon to be ‘old me',
Replaced by the new,
Someone different,
Yet the same,
Long blonde tresses,
Grown silently,
Un-noticed,
Neglected and un-cared for,
And soon to be rejected,
Cut blunt,
At the edges,
To lie discarded,
On a polished wooden floor,
And swept away,
For disposal,
A final resting place,
Amidst damp teabags,
And coffee grains,
And all manner of things,
Renamed as trash.
I look at the image,
The reflection of the new,
Carefully and easily created,
By skilled hands,
And cold steel scissors,
Cutting swiftly,
Without a second glance,
Or remorse,
The new, flat and damp,
And teased and tempted,
By noisy warm appliances,
The old becomes new,
And emerges,
Like a butterfly in Spring.
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