I gave you a haircut little one.
You asked for your hair to be cut and I was bored.
So, I took the scissors out and started snipping away.
Snip snip, snip snip.
Your beautiful curls fell to the floor,
one after the other,
like snow slowly building during a quiet vermont morning.
Your eyes stared straight through me trying be a “big girl,”
still as a statue, frozen.
I try to copy the moves of the stylist
pulling your hair,
trying to even the bangs as they crawl up your forehead.
From Mommy’s cherub to a beatnik
and you love it. And I love it.
And you skip through the house with your new look,
your first “new look”.
The bounce doesn’t fall as fast, as far.
Cassat succombs to Warhol,
We giggle in front of the mirror,
as I push down your colic.
Later that day, I will collect all the little pieces discarded,
left on a towel
in the middle of the hallway.
You’ll peek out at me from the pile,
well, the old you will.
The part that will be gone
as it slides through my fingers.
I can’t let it go.
Instead, I cover it with plastic and grieve.
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