My hair's sort of brownish, but to my dismay,
There were more than a handful of strands that were grey.
My birthday arrived - I had turned sixty-three -
And was feeling in need of a more youthful me.
The "greys" really bugged me - they just didn't suit.
They were not only white, but were wiry to boot.
In the car's rear view mirror, whenever I glanced,
They seemed to be multiplied, strangely enhanced.
Some colour was called for, but which one to choose
From the massive selection, in various hues?
And what type of product? The permanent stuff?
Or the sort that would go, if you washed it enough?
I selected the latter, although it might fade,
And "medium brown" seemed a safe-sounding shade.
What to do wasn't tricky - quite simple in fact.
I complied with instructions, my timing exact.
I rinsed off the gunge, like it said in the pack,
Which was when I discovered my hair had turned black.
I should have expected to meet with some hitch.
My husband observed that I looked like a witch.
My daughter advised, when I asked what to do,
"Use washing-up liquid, instead of shampoo."
So that's what I tried, but my locks are still risible.
They are still very dark - and the grey's once more visible.