I picked a dandelion today. I was out walking the city streets in the spring sunshine enjoying the breeze and color. I almost passed the dandelion without noticing it. It was hidden in a clump of tall grass at the entrance of an alleyway. The flower appeared to be expecting me, waiting so patiently, so I bent down and picked it and stuck in it my hair. I walked on, happy, smiling, with a flower in my hair.

The people I passed all gazed after me with odd expressions. I walked on by without pause. One woman stopped me and asked why I had put a dandelion in my hair.

“It’s such a nasty, common flower,” she said. “A weed. Why go through the trouble and bother?”

I took the flower from my hair and examined it. It was brilliant yellow and sweet, sweet green. The petals were small, perfectly formed and tightly packed. The green fringe around the base of the petals was elegance itself. Standing there, in the sunlight, I turned the flower in my fingers and decided it was beautiful. I told the woman so.

“But,” she said, “It’s so very common. There is nothing special about dandelions.”

I thought about this, the flower in my hand.

“Really?” I asked her, “How can you be sure?”

And I tucked the flower back into my hair and walked away in the sun.