You made me hate my blonde hair.
I heard the natives say hair is an extension of the soul
Mine flows like a silk river spilling over my shoulders and trickling down my back tenderly.
Regularly I pile it on my crown in a petite bun that swirls like the shell of a stubborn hermit crab
Or braid it and am suddenly Heidi of the Alps, in the eyes of my mother at least,
and can scale any mountain.
Apollo and Helios command rays be cast through so it glows as would soft fields of  golden prairie grass,
a meadow of protection for the baby blue butterflies I so adore.
You made me hate my blonde hair.
It fell around your face when we kissed under the stars
A curtain shielding us from bleak mortality for a moment, formed by my mighty branches lazily swaying in our exhilarated breaths.
I love to pretend I'm a weeping willow, my favorite, when playing with my sisters' children
Who lay giggling uncontrollably while my long, slender golden foliage wisps around their faces, teasing them into drunkingly reaching up
Playfully tangling their infant hands whose little tugs could never hurt.
It is truly a blessing to shepherd such pure joy to new souls.
You made me hate my blonde hair.
The golden blanket that adheres to my cheeks between sobs
and dries my tears,
That is brightened by sun kisses that stain uneven highlights;
It seems as my soul becomes lighter, my hair follows suit.
You vehemently expressed my utter perfection
beautiful, selfless, true.
To myself I thought,
        Finally! Someone to share this soul with!
But you have a thing about blondes...
You made me hate my blonde hair.