my hair

My hair is a hazard.

With the windows down
it slices my eyesight while I am
driving.

It gets stuck
under
arms and elbows and heads
when I am horizontal.

During impromptu cafe blurting
it
flicks the cheeks of onlookers
sticks
to the main chewy meal
rips,
brings tears into eyes that need to see.

My hair causes backlash
from severe
hair brushing
and
involuntary bashing of the head
against
stranger bedroom wall.

My hair is out to sabotage.
It wriggles free of its elastic restraints
more than easily
flying across the studio floor

It sheds itself off of my person
into
a million tiny pieces
like the
chocolate bar in Willy Wonka
transports itself into various corners of the
house
leeching onto vulnerable items of clothing
lurks
in dishes of goodwill
scares the recipients
It
blocks the ancient vacuum cleaner
beyond repair.
It
clogs the shower
so that
the bathroom floods and the vinyl irreparably
blisters.

It finds its way
into blu-tack, so that it is unusable.

My hair
sits on the back of my neck
a slightly malicious straggly parasite
looking over my shoulder
conducting the direction of my
steps
whispering suggestions:
Go there, do this.
It
overheats my head with thought
causes drips of worry
to
creep down the open side of my spine,
wallow in the pores of my back skin.

My hair
refuses
to comply;
to be contained;
to sit nicely;
to retain a likeable colour.

I am a siamese twin to my hair
It is a whole entity on its own
but
unfortunately
(for it, not for I)
attached to me.