The Dandruff Monologue

by Ewong
for the Starbucks Smacker

I cling to you like the embrace of a woman

yet I annoy you like an unwanted suitor

Sometimes I interpret your frequent

caresses as a sign of your affection

but now I know that they are only

meaningless affectations like things

or food or people that grow on you,

or perhaps like the hair on your head

which grows long like a lazy Sunday

morning song. Yes, on top of you,

there’s my home sweet home. Yet you

despise me so much, despite knowing,

deep in your bone, that scratching

me off gives an inexplicable sensation

like being kissed on the lips by the man

of your dreams, under poetic moonlight

and dancing fireflies in a princess’s garden,

or perhaps like that infinite moment a boy

is no more a boy when he’s discovered

at last the wonders of a woman’s nipples

You hate me now and feel so much

shame for having me, but you can’t,

and won’t, let go of me so easily. You

go ahead and try whatever chemical

but I tell you, I’m as strong and natural

as the sight of wind-blown cherry

blossoms, painted by the gods perfectly

for the purposes of our romance

You’ll see, my dear friend, you

will not be well rid of me, because

for me to leave you completely,

your hair, your whole hair, has to go

as well into oblivion. But perhaps there,

in that desolate realm of the abandoned,

your hair and I, just the two of us,

can be friends, then make love, and have

lots of baby hairs and little more of my kind.

Perhaps your hair and I can be truly happy,

without your scalp, without your head.

Without you. Maybe it’s better that way.

When I’m far gone, when you’re old

and wrinkled, with no hair, not even gray

or white, perhaps then you’d finally realise

that I was more than the miserable scum

you shook off with inconsolable fury,

that I was, in fact, those little snowflakes

ever so slowly, enchantingly

falling from your sweet head.


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