Tangled Hair Tilley looked rather silly.

Her mom never made her wash her hair.

She never combed it or brushed it,

Or groomed it or cut it—

And Tilley just didn't care.

So many tangles poking out at odd angles

Made for a mess, no doubt.

It was so caked in dirt now,

That her head and neck hurt now,

So her mom tried brushing it out.

Her mom sat her down with a widening frown,

She knew this would take all day.

Tilley screamed with each brush—

Her mom just said, "Hush!"

And kept pulling the layers away.

She found so many things, like bracelets and rings,

A half-eaten apple strudel,

Ping-pong balls,

Legs off dolls

And the neighbor's missing poodle.

Tilley kept blushing as her mom kept brushing,

Discovering a long jumping rope,

A cinder block brick,

A newly hatched chick,

And her teacher's missing microscope.

Tilley was glad, but her mom was still mad,

When she found her overdue book.

It was covered in fleas

And old mushy peas,

Nextto a fish on a hook.

Tilley's mom was sighing but kept on trying—

The detangling was moving slowly.

She found cereal bowls

And dinner rolls,

And a plate of minced meat ravioli.

A bicycle tire, a broken hair dryer,

Potatoes that had started to sprout.

Tilley's old nightgown

Was the last thing she found

Before getting the last tangle out.

Tilley was now free, and so she

Leapt off the chair with a thud.

She grabbed her rope

And the microscope

And ran out to play in the mud.