Time For a Haircut

Flowing gray locks blown by the wind. gives me a look of a hippy woman, wearing bell-bottom jeans with a wide belt, a big-collared shirt covered with a vest of felt. Time for a haircut. Hanging onto my hair length makes me feel secure as I look at the mirror and realize that the only things which changed are the color and my age, one time it was chestnut brown which was the rage. Time for a haircut. I have to admit, I am no longer the raging beauty, the flower child of the sixties who drove from town to town in a van painted with daises looking for eden, a hidden commune called Woods of Sweden. Time for a haircut. The time has arrived as I make up my mind, cutting my hair is accepting my age and not hanging onto my past as a young woman who knew that one day her fountain of youth would slip by and be done. Time for a haircut.