Frizzy, wild and uncontrollable.

            Hairspray just doesn’t stick. So we pile on the wax to mould our paths, to smooth the kinks. We stick a few road signs to know our limits and prevent hazards. We build roundabouts for safe passage.

            But we can’t control the weeds. No matter how hard we try, they curl out of the cracks, like long, lanky fingers that poke and probe our well preserved guts. 

            We stumble then along our pristine paths with aches in our stomachs, we jumble the signs, we give way when we should stop. We go around and around the roundabout wondering what happened to our carefully mapped out streets.

             Well, there is no blueprint.

             Life is like a bad hair day, unruly and disobedient.

             With rocky roads and potholes full of surprises.