i always end up writing about hair.

I.

because you believe in
the learning curve of hairstyling
more than an eighty-dollar
cut-and-color,
you take the back of the box too seriously
and don’t let the bleach
touch the skin under my hair.

the girls i want to be
or be like, or be with
dye chunks of their hair blonde.
it’s supposed to look good.

but you care too much about the
health of my scalp
to let me look like a zebra.
so instead, i look like a zebra with
inch-long roots
and a mother who clearly doesn’t know
how catty eighth grade girls can be.


II.

from over the sink
the pile of auburn strands look something like
mistakes, growing growing.
i can feel the buzz of the clippers
in my jaw.

i told you i want this for myself.
that hair is my vanity
and i’d have a lot more time for
God
or plotting against you
if it was gone.

so you said i’d better keep a hat on
when i’m in your house.

but outside
the yarn of my beanie
sticks like velcro to my scalp.
and when it starts to rain
i pull the velcro off
and feel each drop as it smacks me.


III.

the dog’s body warms my feet.
your feet warm my hands
and the lamp on your nightstand
glows the room orange.

you touch your left
eyebrow, cheek, nostril, ear
to show me what you can’t
feel anymore.
then you lift the hair behind your ear
to show me where some man in Novi
will cut in to your head.

you say thank God they’re not shaving
the whole thing.
thank God.
just around the ear where the
long thin hair there
can make believe there was never
a tumor.