The Pixie

When I was younger my mother

would take me (unwillingly)

to get my haircut

and would ask her hairdresser

(yes, that’s what they were called)

to give me a pixie.

God, I hated how short my hair was.

And after washing my hair,

my mother would smoodge it

(yes, I made that word up)

to give it this strange wave

on the top of my head.

I would have done ANYTHING

for glorious, straight blond hair.

And a tan.

For a fair-skinned freckled

redhead preteen with glasses,

this pixie was

a fate worse than death.

And I swore when I had my own kids

I’d let them have their hair.

So far I’ve held up my end of the bargain.