The Day My Lady Dyed Her ‘Do

You may have heard a word or two,

Today my lady dyed her do.

She dyed her do! She dyed her do!

I saw the dye, and so I knew.

She used to have the darkest locks,

Like hands on all grandfather clocks;

They turned the heads of all the jocks—

They turned mine too! They rocked my socks!

They flowed in wavy, silky strands;

She’d put them back in rubber bands.

I’d comb it through with both my hands—

The luckiest man of all the mans.

But now! But now! What’s this I spy?

An aqua streak across her eye?

She dipped a lock down in some dye,

And turned it bluer than the sky!

Or is that green? Or is it teal?

Is it Photoshop, or is it real?

Where is it on the color wheel?

And did she lose a bet? A deal?

Is she fine with just a streak?

Or will she add a streak a week?

Six weeks of streaks? When will it peak?

With all that dye, the house might reek!

What’s that she says? The dyeing’s done?

I hope she found the dipping fun.

I’m glad she didn’t dye a ton;

T’was just a streak for sport, for fun.

The one small thing I wish I knew

Is, when it grows an inch or two,

What in the world will my dear do,

When roots are black, and hair is blue?