Daughter

Week 5's poem for class

When she was four,

she secretly cut her Barbie’s hair

along with her own.

Dull household scissors

did a bang up job.

Unevenly hacked,

shocks standing up,

the hair magician failed

to keep the girl

from looking like a refugee.

 

***

 

When she was fourteen,

she cut her own wrists

in the upstairs closet,

unable to bear the weight of

unrelenting sadness for

such a young heart.

She pulled the matted hair

back from the tears on her face,

then sought relief elsewhere.

 

 

***

 

Today she drove herself

to an overpriced salon,

slid in the chair with her jeans,

Nikes, and ponytail,

then ordered the chopping herself.

The curly brown hair

that took years to grow out

fell from the middle of her back

to the cold white floor,

only a few inches of bob left,

scissors snipping at seventeen.