Hair.

I. Don’t. Cut. My. Hair.

-well, except for maybe
a little trim now and then,
but not so’s you’d notice-

It’s been two decades
since I s(h)aved it all
and (s)hoved it all
in that /hateful/ boy’s face
two days before the prom
and (it along with) my sharp-
boned shoulders (s)ticking above
that dress /bluest blue for
truest true/ made me look like
love’s refugee escaped
to the other side of the fence.

Mother took the picture anyway.

After a year of getting
my fuzz petted and patted
(feels better than you’d guess-
it’s how I learned I purred)
I donned again my Samson’s face
-now with breasts, but minus the dress-
and I. Don’t. Cut. My. Hair.

© Sarah Whiteley

Props to my mother, who really did take that picture anyway. It’s a wonder she didn’t drink.

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8 thoughts on “Hair.

    1. Ya know, this got me thinking I haven’t seen that picture in about 10 years. Must ask mom where that got to. For some reason she prefers to display the one of me looking like a flower child as opposed to the starved lunatic. Go figure. 🙂

  1. What glorious fun this is – and you’ve certainly had a fun time with the punctuation (that puts me in my place after a comment on your previous poem)! It’s not just amusing though – it is also touching and poignant about the agonies and self-doubts, and parental love, of teenage life. Wonderful!

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