When I’m Old

When I’m old, I’ll let my hair grow long and I won’t ever dye it again. I’ll buy a motorcycle. My tresses will be at mid-thigh when I put on my aqua pants and magenta leather jacket. I’ll cram my helmet atop my head and yell, “Weehoo!” as I jump on my bike. I’ll fly amidst my silver streamers and scream-sing, “I won’t back down!”

The whispers of the neighbors will be the sound of scurrying leaves on a fall day.

“She’s too old.”

“Too much hair.”

“That color combination.”

My voice will crash above the sound of the hog, “You don’t know how it feels to be me!” How sad for all you dead leaves.

I won’t be an easy rider. I’ll have the devil behind me and glory up front. Even if it is only the Piggly Wiggly.

I’ll ride my bike until I don’t. At my funeral my grandchildren will say, “If only she’d cut her hair, she’d be with us today.”

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