A second poem published today by Writing in a Woman’s Voice.
Hair
1
It’s a woman’s crowning glory, Mother said,
and she brushed my hair a hundred strokes
at night, rolled it in rags so my long curls
would bounce below the barrettes, wound them
around her finger each morning. She pulled
so hard my eyes watered. I hacked each curl
off with kitchen shears when I turned twelve.
2
“Don’t ever cut it,” he said, and his hands
were tender beside my face, then drifted
through, beyond. Mother’s mantra
became my own. I brushed until it gleamed.
Once he washed it for me like men do
in Hallmark films. His fingers tangled,
but I didn’t cry since women never cry
in scenes like that.
3
The doctor said it would fall out, but the clumps
in the shower drain startled me. I went to a salon
and told the girl to cut it off, right down
to the scalp. She cried and I cried and she wouldn’t
let me pay.
Sarah Russell Poetry 