When my girls decided to take me 'in-hand'
I knew a certain age had been reached;
an age that cries 'But I'm only...'
to seashell ears
full of the imperative whispers of youth.
Why do I need acrylic nails,
I wasn't planning to claw and scratch,
and No, I like my own eyebrows,
not raised, in permanent plucked surprise.
Pink, Godhelpme, they want me to wear pink.
I think, it could be avoided, if I dye my hair
an improbable shade of firestorm red,
to match my favourite baggy sweater.
layout edit 30.09.10