I’m not a dancer,
but I still have
beauty and allure-
with my bun.
Resting and cresting in my hair,
I can at least
play pretend.
I’m not a dancer,
but don’t I look
like a pretty, pretty
ballerina?

I’m not a grownup,
but I still have
cheekbones and knowledge-
with my bun.
Wound and bound upon my head,
it pulls my skin
taut to the temples.
I’m not a grownup,
but don’t I look
like a mature, mature
adult?

The pretty, pretty ballerina,
and mature, mature adult.
I become them by simply
weaving my hair into
this fastidious knot.
I am a dancer who is graceful,
I am a grownup who is wise.

My, my how magical you are,
to transform me so-
little Ballerina Bun.