Would you call me a blonde?
Marla fingers the frizzy ends
of her grey hair.
I’ll call you anything you like.
Just don’t call me too early in the morning!
She giggles,
and though I’ve heard this joke
ten times already from her,
I laugh too,
then stand behind her chair
and begin to give her a French plait,
pulling the short ends in,
smoothing them into place.
You always have gorgeous hair, she says.
She can’t mean me,
my stringy strands
hiding my face.
She must be thinking of Toffee,
tresses to her hip,
held back
from her forehead with a wide hairband.
I haven’t gorgeous anything, I whisper.
Marla turns angrily,
ruining the plait I’m forced to release.
Do you know your trouble?
You don’t half talk a load of old shite.