There are still tinges of red

dotted

here

and there

as my ruffled feathers mourn

the reflection I now bare

in the mirror,

cut to the bone, shorn

down, worn down Samson

strength, is it just age after all

as I approach the start

of a sixth decade here

on Earth, that self-inflicted

hair loss is congratulated

and applauded like shedding

of comfortable stones,

a woman’s hair is a crowning glory,

in the age of equalism

cannot I not lament