She walks through the door, but I don’t recognize her;
The hair’s not familiar—oh, but maybe the eyes ’re….
As paternal detection begins to lock in,
I cry, “Look at your hair! Now you’ve killed it again!”
She replies (hands on hips), “It’s not dead, Dad, it’s dyed.”
“Uh-huh, that’s exactly what I said: it died!”
So yes, that’s who it was – she, my own precious daughter
With new-looking hair…you’d think I’d’ve taught her
When your hairdo looks different and other folks see ya,
They ask who you are, cuz they’ve got no idea.
They think that you might be their brother’s girl Maisey,
Or that cousin whose hiccup-laugh drives people crazy,
Or maybe the neighbor-girl, come here to borrow
A half cup of sugar she’ll bring back tomorrow
(Cuz back home she’ll discover she’s fresh out of butter;
But come begging again? No, the thought makes her shudder).
Or maybe, just maybe, it’s Great-Great Aunt Ruth
Who’s gone out and discovered the Fountain of Youth –
Which we realize now – I mean, who woulda thunk? –
That the modern-day version’s the Fountain of Punk…
So I oughtta be thankful it’s only the hair
’Stead of piercings and vulgar tattoos who-knows-where,
While arrayed in, perhaps, combat boots and a tutu,
With three shirts (of which one would most likely fit you too);
Or jeans, magic-markered and new scissor-holed,
Together with leather with feathery mold;
Or fishnets and silk shorts, with tee shirt and tie,
And the blackest mascara encircling each eye,
And decked out in bracelets, all studs and spikes,
And such chains as an old biker’s biker babe likes.
Yeah, I oughtta be thankful it’s only the hair
’Stead of that AND an outfit that says “I don’t care.”
And I oughtta have learned to prepare for the worst –
If I don’t check her Facebook for new selfies first!