My daughter had no hair when she emerged.
What grew in that first year was dusky gold.
A blue-eyed blonde she was, till fancy urged
experiments with tints the drugstore sold.
In time her natural color toned light brown,
and later locks of silver threaded through.
She highlit when the mirror brought her down,
and now it’s looking white and wanting blue.

Throughout she’s self-described her hair as blonde;
to her that definition’s nothing strange.
She took it up when young and yellow-fond,
and though she understands that life is change,
she’s stuck in that pre-teen identity,
and gives short shrift to time’s reality.

This entry was posted in Cognition, Philosophy, Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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