A dab of colour, a change of heart,
Fingers rummaging through metal shards.
Her tresses descend in a graceful fall,
As her eyes never leave the glass on the wall.
She turns, she twirls and gathers her hair.
It is her morning routine, an elaborate affair.
She tiptoes across the windows on the street.
She stops, she glances, she takes two minutes to see,
Whether it is this way or that way that her eyes look best,