A friend posted a picture of her dad’s head before and after she gave him a haircut.
For a heart stopping moment, I felt it was my dad. It was the very same kind of head and hair, and I was seized with a wave of longing to see him again.
That sparked this poem. 🙂 So here goes
There was a time when we plucked the grey hairs from my father’s head
We giggled –
he would soon go bald
brown shiny mirror framed by typical male balding
reflected his brown comb
He insisted we check if he had got the parting of his long-gone hair right
That he remembered, not us
Secret bits of youthful vanity tucked and folded into wrinkled skin
My scissors snipped at
hair that grew, hair that did not give up
Ironic proof of life in dying embers
White as sorrow black as grief