You brushed my hair, you pulled out all the knots.
Every morning you wished I was something I am not.
My curls were my crown but a thorn in your side,
You would yell, you would scream, and I would just stand there and cry.
Are you mad at me or my hair? Why do you make things unclear?
You praise my beauty in company but you keep a secret within.
I know in a few hours you will be a hair demon again.
You created a misery where a memory should be!
But your day will come when I will have to help you with your hair,
With the same brush in my hand you used to untangle your mental snare.
I will grasp the brush as a tool and a tool it will stay,
It will be a guide not a sidekick like it was in your day.
It will flow through your hair gently and lull your curls to a peaceful sleep,
I will show you how to be kind by not saying a peep.
The brush that was once a weapon is a scepter of heads,
No longer will this brush make things messy rather beautiful instead.