When my Hair was White

Because I had our daughter
At the age of thirty eight,
I’ve felt the sting of people’s barbs
And took it as my fate.

My hair mixed strands of white
With tresses of dark brown/
So before the day that she was born
I had to go to town

Some color in a bottle easily
Fixed my plight. But as the years passed
I left my hair au natural
And once again faced solicitous remarks.

Asked if mother was at home
By a sales man come to call
I said “you just lost the sale”
As I swiftly closed the door.

Through the years I bore the brunt of that.
I didn’t care a fig about what others thought.
But she heard it more than once
I was her “granny”. So once again
I sought
That elixir in a bottle
To try to change other people’s view

It worked and I was free to be the who I was.
Now I easily answer to my age as platitudes I get
When I say my son is nearing fifty eight,
I can smile when they say.” Oh my you look so young.”

Though I know it is false utterance
and really has no meaning;
It is better than the placative words
I used to hear.

Once at work I had let my hair go white.
And once again I had to face those dread remarks.
“I love to be served by older people “
Said one young man who came in the door

I wanted so to tell him “go directly to your room”
But instead I smiled politely
As he continued in that vein
The more he spoke the deeper
down
he
dug...
But I in  grandmotherly wisdom
Just had to give a verbal hug.

Over the years I have heard it all
And take it with a grin but I must say
that most of all I can’t stand the little “dearie’s”
That most men throw in “sweetheart” and all of that
As they try so hard to please.

I understand but that does me no good.
I do not need a hand to lift a little pen,
Or need to hear sweet words even when given with a grin.
I need a man to love me as a woman should be loved

For who I am and not because
I make them think of grandma
Whom they loved when they were young.

jo perry Oct. 20 07