There's this similarity with all the girls,
They want perfection in 2 things to unfurl.
First a set of 32 sparkling pearls
& secondly the ever so important manageable curls.
Being a girl, I noticed my curls dancing all over
Just when I had to meet my boss whose a pushover.
Help my curls...my inner voice called out
In this workspace I dare not shout.
I opened my purse
Let out an inaudible curse.
Hell, where was my pink little hair brush?
Did I have to lose it in this rush?
I decided to beg, borrow or steal
Well stealing a comb didn't seem like a fair deal.
I went around to ask for a comb,
No one lent me one, far and wide I did roam.
The search was going nowhere
I would have to attend the meeting with this messy hair.
Just then my co-worker walked by, she had something to say
I shooed her away in urgency and said tell me whatever at the end of the day.
Walking out of my room, i could feel everyone's stare
I wanted to become invisble or fly away somewhere.
They were glancing my way and laughing
To not-give-a-damn that's what i was faking.
But deep in my heart I was perturbed
Before this importnat meeting i was disturbed.
If only i could find my pink little comb,
Call me obsessed but I can't get over this perfect hair syndrome.
I entered the elevator, and pressed floor no. six
Turning towards the mirror, my tubelight did click.
'Eureka, i found it', the truth came out bare
I saw my pink little comb stuck between my hair.
May be this is what my co-worker was wanting to tell,
May be this was why I got all those stares,
Maybe this was what people were amused at,
After this discovery my pride fell flat!
Pulling out the comb, my cheeks went pink
To this futile chase even my conscience couldn't help but wink.
My pink little comb was no more a mystery
But this stupidity of mine would certainly go down in history.
PREETI DATAR
(13 April 2006)