The Hair Hunt
Every night, before bed,
I hunt down the silver strands
Right in the middle of my head
Where famous Freddy from the Causeway Bay salon
Makes the stylish divide.
They sneak out as a suicide squad
Of five or six
members
Proudly present themselves
At the height of
Two to four centimetres.
Pure white
Purer than the snow
On Mount Everest.
They have this arrogant glow,
As if I need to be reminded
Of my age
Forty
Monumentally
mid-life-not-yet-crisis
Oh bother!
Didn’t I dye the headful
Just last month?
Out with the tweezer
I pluck these little bastards out of
My fort
Accidentally pulling away
A dozen
Perfectly youthful
Newly dyed
Chestnut-coloured
civilians.
They are, after all,
necessary casualties,
to defend my ever young
sovereignty and integrity.
The Master Planner
Every night
Upon a recycled sheet
She writes down a list
For a day, next—
Then plans that day ahead
By the hour
So that she can sleep seven hours
Without the proper guilt
about the day, past—
In the bamboo basket
Paper to be recycled
Filled with list after list
And one or two ticks
Day by day
This master planner
Lists to-do–
and does nothing.
