Stepping out from the shower today,
I hang my head and blow,
The heat from the drier soon dries me out
And I toss my head back, just to show
A thicker pale streak, pure white, not gray,
Is cascading to my chin,
Last week I’m sure it was darker than that,
The faded bit relatively thin.
I never thought natural colour washed out,
Though I’d had a few outings with dyes,
But week after week, as I blow dry my locks,
I get more than a gentle surprise:
My crowning glory, almost to my waist,
Is not as it all should be,
I’m getting old and the face looking back
Is my mother, dear friends, not me!
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the face in my mirror is a lot like my dad, and dare I say, even my grandpa…although he is still a few years out…>I know he is a coming! loved this post. I watch my wife ever so quietly morph into her dad’s mother. I am a rich man. DM
Hubby says he doesn’t recognise the old man looking back at him from the mirror, though sometimes when the light is just right, I can see his Dad in his features. I had a soft spot for the old boy, and apparently he had one for me too.
I love this poem – so true!
Man can I relate to that! I remember the first time I walked past a mirror and out of the corner of my eye I saw my mother looking back at me. Now, of course, years later, that’s what I see every time 😃
They often say if a guy wants to know what his girlfriend/wife will look like in 25 years, to look at her mother. 🙂