Curls don’t last. Just like you.
Just look at my bedraggled, hair-sprayed, flame-roasted tresses. Hours of meticulous coiffing (complete with multiple nervous breakdowns) resulted in little but a horrifying flashback to the eighties. All for nothing.
Curls and I just aren’t meant for each other. Of course, neither were you and I, were we?
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. This was the night that could have, should have, would have been. But it didn’t.
Oh, I fantasized about it, all right. Walking through the wreath of balloons, arm in arm. An explosion of camera flashes, cheesy smiles and finally braces-free teeth. A slow dance song you’d request, just for us. The brush of your lips across mine, soft as a butterfly’s wings.
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