My Daughter's Hair

There was a little girl,
Who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good,
She was very good indeed,
But when she was bad she was horrid.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow



If I could change for just one day
I’d want to be my daughter’s hair.
Hair that can change your opinion
depending upon weather or light.
Hair that responds favorably to
rain.

It’s a hair that is brown in the living room,
chestnut red on the swings
golden auburn in the sunlight
black in the tub.

A hair that expresses itself freely,
defiant curls well defined,
as it stands up
in question to naps, cleaning messes, and sharing toys.
A hair that stands out
when she stomps and screams and jumps up and down
in a two-year old tantrum
ringlets curled in a rage
bounce in echo
driving the point
directly home
to my heart.

Or, other times, the curl mellows and loosens
relaxed and thoughtful
as when she tries to smell a dandelion puff
delicately one a fine day
her hair a golden frizz of illumination,
a soft feathered cloud of halo
highlighting her experience.

Either way it is a hair
that is sure of exactly who it is
and what it is doing.

Just one day
I’d like to be that hair
the shape and body
of those orphaned Annie tresses,
so full of heart and hope,
so full of spunk and warmth.
That irresistible mane
of curious wildness
that insists
subtly as a corkscrew
its feelings as unabashed fact:
I too shall be loose with love
and contain a confidence
that to know me
is to love me.