Could you all give up dyeing your hair, please?
Let it gradually silver, like mine;
‘Cause I’ll admit I’m in my late thirties,
But I don’t want to look forty-nine.
And if you dye your hair to look younger,
Then you make me look older than you,
When I leave mine its natural colour;
So if you dye it, I have to, too.
And just think of the hours you’d get back,
By not spending them at the salon:
Not pretending your hair is still jet black,
When the truth is, its pigment has gone.
And your life could be so much less stressful,
When not fearing that your roots might show;
Though you might think you don’t look your best still,
But in fact, the grey suits you, you know.
Pounding feet on frosty streets,
Every movement stiff at first,
Then slowly joints begin to ease:
A rhythm builds, my breath in bursts.
A car goes past whose glaring lights
Illuminate the night-time street
Then pass on by and leave me, blind:
No longer can I see my feet.
They’ve disappeared in velvet black,
And as the pavement bumps and dips,
I feel each tiny lump and crack
Like swelling waves beneath a ship.
I stumble, and my pace grows slow
Uncertain now my tread; but then,
I reach a welcome orange glow;
The pavement levels out again.
Buzz: kilometre one at five fifty-one.
Changing is the hardest part:
Stripping to the skin with cold hands;
Swapping warm layers, office smart
For chilly lycra with reflective bands.
Then out again to frigid air,
To stand and wait, and shiver, hard,
And watch my wrist with focused stare,
While satellites align amid the stars.
Then, as I fear I’ll turn to ice,
A gentle buzzing lets me know:
I can now press a button, twice,
And satellites will track me as I go.
Buzz: kilometre zero at zero-point-zero.