I take her to the best hairdresser in town,
where her tresses are washed and curlered and dried
and back-combed and teased and sprayed.
She loves it.
As she walks beside me, smiling and confident,
like a Charlie’s Angel in a hoody
I look beyond the traffic lights and over the bridge
to where another young girl is making her entrance.
A pink horse-drawn hearse leads a procession of six.