Getting Lucky in May

I’ve started stealing from my roommate:
Guatemalan flip-flops, big-beauty pearls, caftans,
and intriguing lash gadgets. She’s an English
willow, a tiny, tiny tulip descended from Debbie
Harry and the Mona Lisa—someone who bolts
for the newest It Bag. I never deep-condition;
my hair is a bale of peroxide-fried hay,
my body an unscientific hourglass—red,
white and blotched all over. To carve out
the Single White Female transformation, I don’t
need medieval slicers and dicers. A gun is much,
much lighter: crisp and idiot-proof, without
the soul-crushing effect. It’s glam, but not like
you’ve tried too hard—voila, no messy streaks.