Place of Refuge

Place of Refuge

09 September 2011


It's all about passing
as something you're not.
The passing can be as significant as
a pauper passing as a prince,
as subtle as passing as a blond
when your naturally blond
have begun to dull and face.

I am a woman who strives
for utter truth,
and yet I do it --
I dye my hair.

"I am a true blond,"
I insist
as I await touch-ups
and highlights.

Or at least I was
                          a blond
a decade ago,
or a century ago,
or two.

Born blond, that's me,
and now, I pass
as blond and hopefully appear to be
younger, too,
than I really am.

(  aoltv )

Yes, I'm sitting here, awaiting
color and cut
and admiring the handiwork
of this salon --
4 years straight
voted best in town.

And I'm looking at my fellow
salon clients,
eyebrows slathered in dye,
heads all wrapped in foil,
baking under space-aged dryers,
and I think:
There's no fooling anyone here:
We're all just passing
or trying to pass 
as something we'd much prefer
to be.
A past self we always took for granted;
a future self always changing.
Some of us, if we're lucky
will find
that on the way to passing
each other,
we'll find

( allposters ) 


Debra She Who Seeks said...

So, is it true? Do blondes have more fun?

Makropoulos said...

Not really. I always wanted to be a red head