the dyer knows

You could ask me to dye my hair, 

But if I were to do it, 

It wouldn’t be to make you care. 

There wouldn’t be much to it, 

 

White blonde when I was young, 

Ash-blonde now I am old, 

Or chestnut gray, still long, 

A raggedy, dull gold. 

 

The wiry whites refuse 

To lie down on my head— 

The news of time is news 

I wouldn’t have unsaid. 

 

How I looked as if I’d just 

Hauled myself out of bed— 

Hair all tousled, mussed 

My boyfriend’s girlfriend said. 

I hadn’t slept with him. 

Anyway she was married, 

Older (though now I am 

Older than she was). Buried, 

 

The hatchet. After death 

They say your hair still grows. 

And what grows after love 

Is dead, the dyer knows. 

 

[Jennifer Clarvoe, 'To Dye For', from Counter-Amores]