I escaped the confines of Hairific
For I never got a chance to tell my story.
I think I deserve my fair share of sympathy.
My hair is reedy and flat;
You could say a close cousin to a doormat.
Searching for the right mousse is always a quest.
So hard to look my best.
So – do I get a groaner?
Image: Pixabay
A Series of Ludicrously Bad Hair Days, Day 4; see Day 3
[Poetic short story]
Her real name is Theresa and she hides what’s left of her hair under a turban. She sizes the group around her, trying to still her nerves. Maddie nods her head as a cue. She introduces herself, “Hello, my name is Shorned Locks. My desire to be festive got the better of me. It started three weeks ago and came to a head yesterday . . . which is why I’m here today.” She clears her throat for all to hear her sad monologue:
“On St. Patrick’s Day I dyed the ends of my hair green to be in the spirit of things. Alas, I botched it as the shade didn’t have the right sheen. Thus, I went to get my hair cut, which looked like a thatched hut. I had asked for layers to replace my blunt look. Instead, I resembled a beast from a wild nature book.
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Image: Pixabay
A Series of Ludicrously Bad Hair Days, Day 1
[Poetry in collusion with a short story]
Haironymous Bush reads the plaque on the door. Inside are people of varied sizes, ages, and sexual persuasions with one thing in common and nothing more. Their bad hair days outnumber the good. They all stand in attention as their Chapter Hairmeister, Maddie O’Hare, leads the opening prayer, “Dear Lord, help us overcome our frizzies, split ends, and turmoil over our tresses. Bless us with a calmer mood.”
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Karina Pinella 
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