Grateful Though I Have My Hair And No One Else’s

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Abstract

alked into a wall) tall, and strong enough that no known force of nature could make it fall.Enter the phase of mop head Paul. Wearing the best kind of mess like a crown, (If the King had to constantly push it out of his eyes) A tangled, greasy hydra that refused to die, to be slain or kept captive. For dead skin cells — so active, somehow.And now, college-bound and wanting even more to be even more of a man. Messy short hair, trying way too hard to show you don’t care, enough to fix it every morning in front of the mirror and every time a pretty woman with pretty eyes walks by.Now it didn’t dare try, and be unruly. Because if it did the clippers clipped and buzzers buzzed and you emerged with a shaved head because — honestly it was easier. And sometimes someone cute from class would want to touch it right after you got it done.It was fun, Until it wasn’t. Until your face changed shape, grew up on both sides, and you became unable to hide, that the hair in the midd

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le was thinning.Your mother’s father’s genes were winning. So you started to lose.But you have never been scared of a fight, so you decided to rage against the night of your life, with hair.Damn your head’s destiny. You grew it out even longer. First over your ears, then down your neck, then mullet phase, messy phase, a hat collection next.Until one morning you woke up to find, you’d done it. Become the short stocky Tarzan in your mind, down past your shoulders, a daily hair tie holder.Compliments (mostly from men) and conditioners (most bargain bin) and an immediate sign you want to be seen, outside of the average white guy mainstream.Perfect. Then fine, then it was time.But you are holding on just a little bit longer. Happy to have head it, hoping for a hit of grey, letting yourself go another day, and letting out another sigh, before the clippers clip, the buzzers buzz, and you say goodbye.</article></body>

A poem about life’s last haircut coming up fast

One Hundred Days of Gratitude. Eight.

Your mom and her friends would pluck your ringlets. A baby head full of baby hair full of tight tiny baby curls Adored by all the girls, (mostly of older ages)

You got older, they lost their hold-sure, but that was okay you were going from baby to boy, and boys had short hair anyway.

So you did what any good smart kid does, and copied the cool bad ones. Palming hair gel in your hand and pushing the front up like a wave (or like you walked into a wall) tall, and strong enough that no known force of nature could make it fall.

Enter the phase of mop head Paul. Wearing the best kind of mess like a crown, (If the King had to constantly push it out of his eyes) A tangled, greasy hydra that refused to die, to be slain or kept captive. For dead skin cells — so active, somehow.

And now, college-bound and wanting even more to be even more of a man. Messy short hair, trying way too hard to show you don’t care, enough to fix it every morning in front of the mirror and every time a pretty woman with pretty eyes walks by.

Now it didn’t dare try, and be unruly. Because if it did the clippers clipped and buzzers buzzed and you emerged with a shaved head because — honestly it was easier. And sometimes someone cute from class would want to touch it right after you got it done.

It was fun, Until it wasn’t. Until your face changed shape, grew up on both sides, and you became unable to hide, that the hair in the middle was thinning.

Your mother’s father’s genes were winning. So you started to lose.

But you have never been scared of a fight, so you decided to rage against the night of your life, with hair.

Damn your head’s destiny. You grew it out even longer. First over your ears, then down your neck, then mullet phase, messy phase, a hat collection next.

Until one morning you woke up to find, you’d done it. Become the short stocky Tarzan in your mind, down past your shoulders, a daily hair tie holder.

Compliments (mostly from men) and conditioners (most bargain bin) and an immediate sign you want to be seen, outside of the average white guy mainstream.

Perfect. Then fine, then it was time.

But you are holding on just a little bit longer. Happy to have head it, hoping for a hit of grey, letting yourself go another day, and letting out another sigh, before the clippers clip, the buzzers buzz, and you say goodbye.