Bad Hair Day #1
This morning the mirror refused negotiation.
My hair, a rogue nation
of static and rebellion, stood up
as if to salute some forgotten anthem.
Coffee tried to settle the uprising,
but the mug cracked near the handle,
and steam whispered something
about surrender.
Outside, a squirrel conducted
its own orchestra of chaos—
leaves rattled, wind replied in B-flat minor.
I thought about calling in bald,
just an empty head
rolling through the day’s chores.
The radio said it was going to be
partly cloudy with a chance of grace.
I combed the air, found a strand of sunlight,
and pinned it to my breath,
that small, shining thing still trying to behave.
Bad Hair Day #2
The comb has gone missing again,
probably hiding with that vanished sock
and the dream I had about my father
building a staircase up the side of the house.
The mirror pretends not to notice,
but I see the smirk in its silver mouth.
Some mornings the reflection grows
impatient— wants a better face,
tighter corners, an easier story to tell.
I try to reason with my hair:
we’ve been through years of wind,
the mercy of rain, the occasional applause
from strangers who meant well.
Today, though, it’s a stormcloud,
a disobedient halo.
Outside, the neighbor’s dog
watches me file past the hydrangeas.
He knows the secret:
every bad hair day starts inside the skull,
a tangle no comb can quiet.
Bad Hair Day #3
By noon my hair had unionized, issued demands:
more conditioner, fewer hats,
a three-day weekend for every shampoo.
I offered mousse,
but they said negotiations had collapsed.
The left side went on strike altogether,
stuck out like a protest sign.
Even the cat looked concerned,
creeping backward as if I had turned
into static electricity itself.
I tried flattening it with philosophy,
but it only grew louder,
reciting Nietzsche and humming
“Born to Be Wild.”
I wore it proudly to the grocery store,
a crown of chaos.
In the cereal aisle an old woman smiled,
whispered “Courage, dear,”
as if I were starting the next revolution.
