Election Ink and Hair Color. And Gains.
A strand of hair flew as if it was in its teens.
It violated the clutcher and just spirited on her cheeks.
One day it overheard somewhere that teens’ reputation was to be boisterous, and sometimes dangerous.
Unless they took to sports. Or to theater.
It was a bit short for basketball and a bit tall for gymnastics. So it went to the theater.
And got a role to stand still — wet in the rain.
As the crowd was watching, it felt too dry to act wet. The shot demanded a mature cut. But it delivered a long and silent and a female pause.
They all clapped.
It felt like a sandwich — a male bread filled with female stuffing. The stuffing was its gain.
Not a teenager anymore, it could vote now.
It voted, and the elections ink is like the hair color.