Blonde
A poem
We’re sitting outside having dinner when my son (who’s two and a half)
says, “I have blonde hair!” (He does.)
My husband and I burst out laughing at the toddlerness of it all.
Then he asks me, “What color is your hair, mama?”
I ask him what he sees.
He looks at me with his big blue eyes and scrunches his face.
He smiles, touches where my roots are coming in, and says, “BLONDE,” with a smile and a proud finish.
My hair is not blonde. I have never been blonde. My hair is black,
and I dye it to match my natural color because I have a lot of grey hair. Like, a lot.
And because I don’t want people to think I’m his grandmother, I cover it. But my boy didn’t see my roots, just a patch of something lighter. Something, he thought, that was maybe like him.
So maybe I’ll leave it uncovered.
For now, at least.
If you enjoyed this piece, check out my poetry book, “the poetry of things: poems for the tough & tender moments of life” — now available here at Bottlecap Press.
