What purpose this tragic torture
of two hours every month or so?
An ordeal to endure:
countless conversations,
booming music and dueling dryers
pouring into unfiltered ears,
like the water squirted within
when my hair is rinsed.
 
Bright lights compel me
to close my eyes,
harsh sharp smells —
dyes, shampoos, sprays and gels
all compete for air space.
 
A quasi-caustic sensation
from color plastered on scalp,
an added insult of hefty fee,
the price for elusive beauty.
What happened to gracefully growing grey?


© by Carolyn Casas.
Used with the author's permission.