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
Schedule a hair appointment
This should be the official presidential portrait.
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