I remember my mom cutting my hair when I was a little kid with the same scissors we used to cut out shapes from colored paper, long with a colorful plastic handle it made a funny sound like a metal cricket when its two sharpened legs came together, one of them cold resting against my forehead to steady her hand, the high-pitched
shwee-sh-wooo, and the air in the autumn smelled of crunchy dead leaves, the smoke from the chimneys came across in the breeze, and my eyes wanted to look around cause we were outside, seated on a stool on the porch my dad built, the door behind us painted a bright cherry red when all the adrenaline rushed to my head as the cricket danced across my face, and my mom's hands loving but firm taking hair up between her fingers and licking it to make an end, like a stamp for a letter to a friend, shwee-sh-wooo, then stepping back to check her work and guiding my big head in her hands, eggs and bacon on the breeze coming off the neighbor's trees, the sound of distant lawnmowers and some petrol I can taste as she cuts behind my ears and my face, shwee-sh-wooo, and presses a thumb behind my ear, and her other hand cupping my head, saying
hold still! in a firm but even tone, the old school ringing of the phone behind the door, shwee-sh-wooo, getting impatient saying
sit up some more so I scoot up in the chair and try to hold myself there, but the colors of the morning and the itching of the hair, have my head following my eyes, and the metal crickets almost cut me,
hold still! - I thought I was - and the now she's working on the fuzz on the nape of my neck, shwee-sh-wooo, the goosebumps come up and I giggle feeling chills, and my mom's got her allergies on her allergy pills, maybe hungover from the night before and the mischief we made, my brother and I in the night feeling brave, tiptoeing up to the attic on steps all of which creaked to play air hockey or just watch tv in the dark, feeling adventurous quite high on the lark,
shwee-sh-wooo, and now I am hoping it will be over very soon, as my keeper is not happy i'm afraid, leaning into me smelling of dad's cologne and perfume, shwee-sh-wooo she pulls at my hair and shouting
hold still! the tone of her voice demanding and shrill, and I picture my ear cut off on the boards, bleeding down into the planks on the porch dripping down into the ground in the soil, to sprout in the dark some ears on a vine, and then i will pick one to best replace mine, and though there is forceful aggressive hedging going on, I still cannot repress a long sigh and a yawn, for I know I am safe at my sweet mother's behest, soon in her loving arms will I rest with her fingers running through the blonde wave she has made, all the ends misplaced and bangs askew I'm afraid, but who knows and who knew and who cares I could say, lucky and kept in a rough-loving way.
