How many hours of my life
did I sit with my hair rolled in curlers,
my scalp pulled and hot
and itchy as a plastic cap
billowed with warm air,
a tube from the back
to a box vowing grown-up
delights, instant beauty,
a freedom from this life,
an island of riches?
Once the curlers were off,
and my scalp stopped its prickling,
my hair sprung to normal,
and those dreams disappeared.
published in Prolific Pulse
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