Searching For My Roots

A poem about getting older

When the first gray appeared, I was nine. I had no fear of aging inappropriately — plucked, the hair disappeared.

Little did I foresee A problem in my twenties when the gray multiplied into a fashionable streak.

It was cool, I lied to myself, although I dyed it when I reached another decade. Just vanity and pride,

of course. If only I were more confident, I thought, sure that the problem lay with my terrible hair genes from my father.

But the root of the problem, I find, is stress — so says science. If I try to relax, perhaps do yoga or lie down, maybe brown hair again? … Sigh.