short sad hair (a poem by Cathy Gruman)

I love short hair, except when it is imposed on those who want to keep theirs long. Hence, this poem.... Cate

Short Sad Hair
(a poem by Cathy Gruman, 2009)

My brother cried when my mom cut his hair;
I ten and he thirteen.
I sat and watched in despair.
It seemed so cruel.
He looked like someone
had stolen his fate.
I looked disparingly as she clipped his mane.
It was sandy brown, straight and long.
It was him, his style, with his 501’s, Vans and white t'shirts.
He was cool.
He was free.
He was ornery.
And fun.
I followed him around like he was king.
I begged for his sunflower seeds
as we sat on the porch one day.
He wouldn’t share.
He just continued on, cracking and eating,
spitting out a pile of empty shells on the porch.
I sat content, happy to be near.
I took my place by his side and there, I would reside.
When I was nine, my mom cut my hair.
A pixie as short as a boy’s.
I rode on the floor of the backseat
all the way home,
hoping desperately no one would see.
I wondered about this strange and cruel obsession
she had with our hair.
It was the 60’s for goodness sakes.