The curly boy

The curly boy

July 13, 2021
The curly boy ran his fingers through his hair.
He patted it flat.
He pressed his palms to his scalp and held them there.
Gently, carefully, he pulled his hands away.

A breeze brushed his cheeks.
It lifted the curls he had smoothed so carefully.
It swirled and twirled, twisted and swizzled.
It coiled and crinkled and crimped.

‘Arrgh!’ said the curly boy.
He clapped his hands to his head. ‘I can’t stand it!’
‘What’s the matter?’ asked the dishevelled little owl.
‘I’m too curly!’ said the curly boy. ‘No-one’s as curly as me!’

The lifting breeze travelled past the butcher.
It inspected the apples in front of the fruiterer.
It visited the bookshop. Read a bit.
It wafted through originality flowers. (Bunched in buckets by the florist.)

‘Come on,’ said the dishevelled little owl.
She went to the buckets where the originality flowers stood.
She asked the florist to explain them. (As much as he could.)
‘People want them,’ the man said. ‘Because they’re one of a kind.’

‘Can we have just one?’ asked the dishevelled little owl.
The florist picked out the best of the bunch. He handed it to the curly boy.
The curly boy sniffed the originality flower’s one-of-a-kind scent
and as the dishevelled little owl watched...

The lifting breeze tickled the curly boy’s curls.