Hair Yell


It’s ok to use a little hairspray

To keep it out of your eyes

Glue it down, rearrange it

Before you lose your mind

And yell at the mirror

Blaming your cowlick

On that worn pillow

You named Mr. Flattie

Throwing aside Pregnant Betty

The pillow who’s too fluffy,

Yet leaves your hair alone.

Hey, it’s sleep or style

A choice many make during the night.

No wonder you’re naming pillows.

But, as you yell

At the reflection of a bird nest

On top of your morning-before-work head

You imagine that your hair is…

The split-ended image of a yell

Swept back, bird plumage, Trump-like

Angry words pushed forth

Ahead of any functional thought

As if the loud sound

Emanates from the pre-coffee era

Or the post postmodern alcohol crazy-shit era.

Making you wonder

Who has control of your mop top?

A Yodeler gone idiotic?

A Cavewoman in prehistoric menopause?

Your coworkers will wonder

Who you had an argument with.

Was it the whole of America?

Were you poking your nose

in some other country’s junk drawer

Hoping to find a flat iron?

But, it’s more complex than that

You could style it all out

If it wasn’t for the damn bathroom

Louder than any other room.

Who designed them that way?

Why would anyone wish

To listen to shit at twice the volume?

Your toilet yelling becomes whiplash

A blowback, an implant, a fierce shot of wind

You can’t wear a hat all your life

Hoping it’ll protect you from overreacting.

You tangle with the hairspray

A cold mist surrounds your aura

Placing your roots back

Into the mild mold it knows

It’s time to catch the train


Remember, for later, at coffee break

If your yelling attempts to fly

Violently to one side or the other

Shut up

Schedule a hair appointment


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