Poofy


She looked in the mirror,
ran her hands through her hair.
The dark ringlets separated,
then reconvened at her shoulders.
She had never been fond of her hair,
the same as her mother’s.
She said it was beautiful.
The girls in her fifth grade class,
said it was just poofy.

Hours spent in salon chairs,
one smoothing treatment after another.
Top of the line flat irons
and bottles of sticky hairspray
cluttered the bathroom counter.
Anything to keep her hair tamed.

But she couldn’t see what the others could see.
How the unrefined strands danced with her every move,
and how her curls sat like a crown upon her head.
She never realized
just how pretty poofy could be.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem