“Sit still,” she says, and swathed in bath towels, he sits up straight.
Snip, snip! Locks of hair sift to the floor.
A snow shower of palest curls surrounds him.
How many haircuts are there in a lifetime?
The toddler, who sheds his baby curls;
The child, so grown up for the first day of school;
The soldier, head shaved like the rest of his gang;
The bridegroom, eager for his wedding day;
The proud father, happy at bar/bat mitzvahs;
And all of the forgotten haircuts in between.
“Where does all of the hair go?” he thought.
It was part of him, and then it was not.
He is both whole with it, and then without it.
“Here, Dad, let me help you down,” she says, but he
slides down, eschewing her outstretched hand.
She sweeps the hair across the room and opens the door.
Out, out it flies, picked up by the swirling wind and
Carried on one last glorious ride
Before settling down to become part of the earth once again.
Susan Greenberg Feltman 