Don't Go to Bed with Wet Hair

I'm almost two feet taller now, but no longer at home.

I don't have the same comfort from the hair dryer's

fiery electric drone.

I used to watch the clock dance for hours

and wish I could sleep. I'd scrunch my toes

in the cold contrast and bunch up my shoulders.

Only simple commands were called out:

“Turn. Left. Up. Down.”

When he had insisted wet hair would make me sick

I hesitantly decided, Dad knows best; Old age made him wise.

So I would stare at the bathroom tiles with a burn

behind my eyes. I knew it was an inevitable

recurring ritual, blow-drying this hefty heap.

Through the wild mess of hair

atop my head, there were but a few chances

to catch a glimpse in the mirror, peeking

through the puff.

Blood rushed to my face as I turned my head

upside-down. The tugging brought tears.

Large fingers brushed my scalp. Heat encroached

behind my ears.

But I secretly enjoyed this painful grooming

though I would never admit it then; when I was

standing a tiny bit taller than four feet.