It was my sister’s birthday yesterday. She is commonly know as She of the Loud Laugh, particularly when she has been imbibing something alcoholic in nature. Her place in the pecking order is second from the bottom or third from the top, depending on how you look at it. Sister Number Three has a beautiful mop of blonde, curly hair but, as it is the nature of humans to never be happy with what they have, she doesn’t like her curls. Rather bizarre to me of the ramrod straight hair, who spend her entire high school career trying to cox her un-obliging hair into curls. I remember our Mother trying to curl my hair when I was a small girl. She would use hair pins and would have to give each twist of hair a good pinch before inserting the hair pin for there to be a remote chance of curls in the morning. After an uncomfortable night, passed with my face in the pillow, I would have a head of curls in the morning. By lunch time, however, my Christmas tree would be falling part and by dinner time all that would remain would be a few sad looking twirls. Anyhow, back to Sister Number Three. An experiment was undertaken, not that long ago, to straighten her curly mop. The consequences were rather disastrous and, I am ashamed to say, that when I heard of the result I laughed so hard that I fell off my chair in the airport at Heathrow.

It still brings a huge grin to my face when I remember reading the 27 frantic Whatsup messages that followed the hair straightening episode, and so as a tribute to Sister Number Three, I decided to write her a poem to help her remember the incident.

A different look

A shriek of dismay;

Followed by heavy thumps;

She pelts frantically past;

Hair falling out in clumps.

What has she done now?

This sister of mine;

When it comes to trouble;

All the rest she’ll outshine.

The contents of a bottle;

Help her to stay blonde;

But of her bright, shiny curls;

She’s not very fond.

It’s time for them to go;

Is what she did decide;

On some dubious chemicals;

She innocently relied.

Oh sister dear;

Your shorn look I adore;

Please can I keep;

One lock from the floor.

By Robbie Cheadle

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13 thoughts on “#Loveuary – A different look – A poem for my sister

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