NeuroDivine

The silver stirs like lunar fire
 Within the midnight strands;
A hush falls over salon air
 As light slips through my hands.

The bleaching bowl becomes a pool
 Where thresholds softly gleam;
I feel the veil grow thinnest here—
 A rite within a dream.

Old spirits of the barrow‑lands
 Lean close to watch the change,
And murmur blessings through the foam
 In voices wild and strange.

Saint Brigid’s flame, Saint Eimhín’s tide,
 Move through each breaking thread;
They whisper, Let the moon come forth
 And crown your mortal head.

For Pride is near—two dawns away—
 A gate of colour bright;
And I, half‑shadow, half‑reborn,
 Am silvering in its light.

If not today, then nevermore—
 The moment’s charm is cast;
So let the platinum spirit rise
 And burn away the past.

And should it blaze too fierce, too fae,
 Or gleam beyond my plan,
I’ll walk through Belfast’s mystic streets
 A moon‑anointed man.

Sitting in the salon chair right now with a head full of bleach, wondering if I’ve entirely lost my mind.

My natural black hair has been quietly surrendering to grey and silver for a while now. But with Pride just two days away on Saturday, I thought: why not go all the way? Platinum or bust. They say every gay boy needs to bleach his hair at least once. Pushing fifty, if I don’t do it now, I might not have enough hair left to bleach!

So here I am—feeling equal parts terrified, thrilled, and ridiculous, watching the dark give way to silver in the bowl. Will it turn out okay? Will I look like a mystical fae creature or an accidentally scorched sheep? We’re about to find out.

If you see a moon-anointed man wandering the streets of Belfast this weekend, you’ll know it worked.