What if I had pink hair,
I wonder.

Like a fairy godmother, an ethereal vision
of gentle disposition, peony petal soft,
a harlequin romance heroine in pastel.

But maybe (probably)

like a frizzy and frazzled manic pixie dream girl
snapping over-chewed bubble gum
between snarled teeth.

Maybe on a different girl,
with smaller hips and glowing skin,
pink hair could be all the pretty things
that I am not.

She’d be full of vintage silk slips,
strawberry lip balm, French macarons
and manicured hands clutching cotton candy
spun onto a paper cone.

A circlet of wildflowers to crown her
–New Bohemian royalty.