The belief that women can’t resist
talking smack about each other
should be called the fallacy of animosity,
though I admit I hate my friend’s bangs.
Every so often, I examine my hair
under a microscope to see if I need  
to deep condition. Am I the only one
terrified of living life without
fully realizing my popularity?
I resolve to work harder, to act natural,
to redact my overeager smile
the next time you tell me I’m pretty.
But thank you. It means a lot.
I tried to check my ego
with a controlled burn and accidentally
scorched the whole thing.
Is it better to be loved or respected?
Not to whine, but why must
women choose? I think
my hair looks nice when I wear it up.
My neck is my best feature,
fluted like a calla lily.
At least that’s what people say.