“Lilli,” in stature, came in forms of two sizes,

Twelve inches nigh, or seven and a view. She was everybody’s favorite girl, but mama

wouldn’t let us have one.  “No white dolls in 

the house,” we were only supposed to like the

black ones. My choice: Statuous.   Long blond hair, straightened and styled slick back. Chignon chosen. Just like the white girls at school, that I secretly envied. Except whenever they would toss their long hair, seated in front me on my desk.  On the commercial, she was glamorous. Not anatomically correct, by any standard.  A penciled neck's defined by the lack of gravity. 'Neath her sculpted chin, a secret neatly kept.  “I’m the baddest chick out here,” she and her other disciples must have thought. Her legs, when seated, exude elegance. No sprawling pose, but dignity's command this inanimate idol garnered.  It trickled down from decade to decade. Now, in the “hood” there’s a beauty supply store on every corner.  In its place, I would choose to place any flowing object over my head, then swing it from side to side to side to side.  Just like I had long golden tresses.  Extensions, wigs, braids…Soon Lee the neighborhood’s supplier.  Converted: I used to wear hazel contacts lens. “Girl, take that shirt off of yo’ head!  You look dumb.” My brother used to holler.    In my nebulous space, I wanna look beautiful.  But it’s an impractical standard that’s impossible for any woman to mirror.