Why We Dye Our Hair

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When you tuck an iris behind my ear, and we crawl through the cave as the rain comes,

even when “you” are just my hand and and “we” are just my left and right sides I feel like the softest loved-est flower girl about to bless a Southern wedding

with my bare feet on a grass aisle;

I feel like all the people running with their headphones should probably take them off since the taxis yelp to drills and heels clanking in concrete sync;

I feel like that bouquet you caught in the back of the school bus last month is my own rock, the amethyst one I kept in a box as a child and padded with pillows like a mummy in a well-tended tomb.

When you toss my legs over that branch like that, and you hang me upside down to swing like a monkey on a jungle gym and you sing “Om” with me (which they say was the whole world’s first sound), I feel like you and I don’t need Facebook or chewing gum or even movies to keep us going. We don’t even need men or ice cream.

When you shove my stomach against the trunk, and we’re 12 feet up and you glue my limbs around its waist, we breathe in as it breathes out, and we notice.

But let’s face it: we’re too antsy to live 300 years in one place. So we go get highlights in a salon.

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