A HAIRY TALE

By John Henry Hill

  When I was a child, my father told me my hair was bad.

My mother told me the same thing.

So did my grandmother and grandfather and aunt and uncle.

  So how was I a mere child to know that I was a unique and beautiful creature?

  The answer came to me one day as I lay stretched out on the grass staring at the sky counting the clouds as they went by until I saw one that looked just like me.

Then I knew beyond any doubt that Mommy and Daddy, Grandma and Grandpa, Aunt and Uncle cousins friends school teachers and my Minister were wrong.

    Cozy Corner