Chemical Reaction
I wanted pink hair as soon as I saw it;
dry and dusk-rose in the cold northern sun.
A girl breaking in a pair of fat shoes, her hair faded and face unmade
kicking at the muddy path and staring disdainfully at the ducks.
Why pink? said my friend.
Pink like my dad’s face when he was drowsy with beer
pink like my sunburned shoulders in Spain
pink like that girl over there
who looks like she doesn’t care that her hair’s been bleached to shit.
I imagined a messy evening spent over my sink
the struggle to wring the smell of cheap dye out of my curtains
my ancient Pavement shirt sprouting a messy rose-garden around the shoulders
my hair making its dehydrated pleas for salvation as I slathered on another coat of bleach.
Or blue, deep sky reflected in the oil-slicked river
the light from my phone-screen that kept me up and killed my brain cells
the frumpy school skirt I wore every weekday for years.
Stains your hair, said my friend. Makes it green.
Purple, then; lavender, like the fields in France
my granny’s ancient glass perfume bottles
the rumpled cord shirt I blew half my week’s grocery money on –
Purple does the same. Won’t wash out.
Fucking pink, then, I said.
Do you actually want pink hair? she said. Or do you want something different?
Here was the heart of it.
Does it matter? I said, because I didn’t want to answer.
Daisy Harris
Daisy Harris Poetry 