In the drugstore
I pause at a wall
of blond boxes
watching me
sending me backward in time to
Granny’s smoky-yellow kitchen.
I tingle with
that old ache
for magicical transformation.
Ambitious, I pick
a honey-blond beauty,
bring her home to help.
Pulling on
plastic gloves,
my eyes yelp
at the sharp scent of ammonia.
I combine potions,
ignore instructions.
Slather my head
with burning elixir
sit, face squinched
dabbing flaming drips
as I’ve seen Mom do
so often.
This sour expression
never pictured on the box.
Finally,
I wash away the stringy brown
and unveil a new neon shade
radiant tangerine!
Not a quitter,
I repeat, get
highlighter yellow!
My hair, now
brittle, starts
shedding in the shower again,
but the pale strands
never show.
Just tickle my palms
while water
flows through my fingers.