You are hair.


Like hair, you are poseable,

Flexible enough to become

Whoever you think others

Will want to see.


You're obsessed with perfection;

Others can't see your frayed ends

Or the tangles you smoothed out this morning.

Flaws terrify you.


And as you shape yourself,

Abandon your straight, natural look,

You're losing a bit of you.

Others expect you to

Look that certain way,

Or be different, fresh,

Every single time they see you.


You're no longer you.

You're their hair to play with,

The hair on that mannequin,

Completely unable to be

Yourself, but rather reflect

The interests of others.


You are just their hair.