In Which I Emerge Windblown But Happy From A Salon

It should not really matter, but it does;

No matter what, I'm still a girl, although

A girly girl I never really was.

No time to fuss, I'm either on the go

Or planted somewhere with a book. How I

Might look has been of less concern to me

Than how I feel. It's strange, then, that some dye

A new haircut and styling goop can be

Transformative. I've never gone this dark

Nor curly, nor high-maintenance, could this

Somehow be one more odd attempt to mark

That I'm no longer some young chick? I miss

Those years not one bit. So why should I care?

But I have got to say, I love my hair!

BONUS SONNET: Urine-Sane, Or How We Can't Just Leave That Cow Pee Alone

I have it on the best authority
(George Hrab, that is, though he is really FAR
From being in a small minority
In calling out the notion as bizarre)
That a new drink will sweep us from the East.
A soda pop of cow pee that is meant
To purify and cleanse at very least.
How funny that it's now the start of Lent
As we learn this. Still stranger is the fact
That it's not our first time using cow pee
From India as a prized good. The tract
BRIGHT EARTH by Phillip Ball tells us of old
How mango-leaf-fed cows' pee fetched much gold.