Swizzle Stick

Too Old for Ponytails

I had given no thought to my hair,
centre-parted, pulled
into ponytails, blonde & long. At twelve,

I didn't give thought to my hair.
It was my first day of high school
& I was ready for lessons,

but not ready for the three girls,
older, wiser, wearing mascara
& serious, frightening sneers,

who stood over me, & said
Hey kid you're in high school.
You can't wear ponytails now.

Their long hair was uniform, flicked
like Farrah's, stiff with spray, brittle
& blonde like mine, but

with dark strips eating at the roots.
You're not in primary school any more.
You have to grow up.

Did growing up mean hours of labour
over my hair? Did it mean Farrah-flicks,
clumpy mascara, sneering in threes?

Take 'em out, they demanded, take
the ponytails out. Trapped by three
mean girls against a vast brick wall,

I gathered my short twelve years
of courage, & said No. Two things I knew:
I would never be like them, & didn't want to be.