A Rant To The Gray Hair That Was

Wait a minute . . .
Eyes widen then narrow in.
What!?!
Fingers thumb frantically.
Aha!
There . . . you . . . are.
I should have been expecting you.
Six months since I sent you packing
Slipping into the sweet sleep of denial.
But there you are.
One day into my 33rd year.
You couldn't even let me celebrate.
Cheeks blush as words spoken in
The vanity of youth take form in the
Haze of memory:
"I'm going to gray gracefully."
Older friends smiling and nodding,
Knowing all too well
These misguided platitudes.
And there you are.
Mocking me.
Fingers dial:
"Mom, when did Grandma go gray?"
"Not unusually early."
I'm safe.
She continues:
"But your Grandma Heckman,
she was completely
gray
by
30."
And I see my fate.
Me, a magnet for bad DNA.
And I fume.
Why do men . . .
Why does my man
Only get more attractive with each gray hair.
It isn't fair.
He looks distinguished.
I'll look dumpy.
I've only recently accepted that my hair
Is brown instead of blonde.
And now gray?
Yet, there you are. . .
I will have you out.
Out!
And you are gone.
Victory!
I have won the battle.
(Sigh.)
I've a sinking feeling that
I'm
losing
the
war.