Your hair looks nonchalant, she says, as we get out of the car.
Nonchalant? I say. My hair?
Yes, she says. Unfussed, loose like a kaftan, happy in the way it looks like some of your poems.
Happy hair? Isn’t that a good thing?
Yes, she says, but couldn’t you …..?
Comb it? Of course, as I pull my little comb out of the back pocket of my jeans,
And that’s another thing, she says. Why pink?
*pic courtesy of Pinterest