It had decided a long time ago
Which direction it wanted to grow
No reason, no rhyme
It would only get more stubborn with time.
Not curly but with swerves and dips
It couldn’t be tamed, not even with a whip
It will forever defy blow-dryers of today
Not even stiff-bristles can tame this hay.
With little effort, of winding around
It becomes a sculpture, an erotic crown
Layers and layers of color with no name
I’m beginning to ponder this head of fame