Silver

The cutter pauses as he fingers my hair,

Then he leans in, a half-smile on his face, a knowing look,

He drops his voice down low.

I can cover that grey, he says, with just a hint of smugness.

It's not grey, I tell him, it's a record of my life.

There's steel from broken relationships, and from heartache.

There's iron from jobs I hated, and from bosses who bullied.

Do you see this oyster streak here, right by my temple? That came when my mother died.

The ash wisps that curl along my ears, can you see them clear? That's the money worries, the bills, the clients that didn't pay.

The slate in my fringe? That's been there since the move.

There's lead for ghosting friends, stone for untold stories and smoke for paths not taken.

There's granite for those lost to cancer and Covid.

It's not grey, I say, it's silver.

More valuable than gold.

I paid dearly for every strand.

It's not grey, I say, it's silver.

And it stays.