It's her Hair Day,
     which means:

     It's my Waiting Day

A full day spent texting,
                guessing,
               wondering,

     hoping she's smiling somewhere…

     under foils,
           heat,
           care,

     as she (hopefully) thinks of me.

Every message sent
     is another moment counted,
        another strand perfected,
        another minute *closer*,

     to seeing the magic she's created.

I keep typing,
       laughing,
       pretending,

       that patience is my virtue.

I've counted ceiling tiles,
     organized condiments,
     refreshed my phone
     roughly a million times—

     all perfectly reasonable behaviors, given the stakes.

Secretly imagining—
     the moment she's done,
     the moment she's free,
     the moment she's here,

     and I can finally see her.

It's just hair,
     just another day,

     falling slowly into just another night.

But somehow,
     when it's *her*,
     it's magic,
     it's mystery,
     it's a *reason*…

     to happily spend this eternity waiting with her.