Under the warm scalp, something gave them life. Your parents aged gracefully; you were told that you would too. Maybe it was stress, then, that shook, quivered them into existence.
Eight follicles of white hair held hands in the dark and grew up through the skin of your head, sprouting secretly below a layer of brown. They probably smiled, tasting shampoo for the first time. Now, one inch longer, they glisten from healthy doses of coconut conditioner.
You touch up your roots with permanent dye, knowing their kin beneath will never die. You look in the mirror, suddenly old at twenty-two.