We’re all impatient about these coronavirus hairdos. My hair is starting to reach my shoulders, a place it hasn’t reached in decades. Sigh. Please enjoy this haircut poem.
Shear
by Christina Stoddard
I want a haircut that can win a bar fight.
I want a haircut that will
throw my things on the lawn so I can finally
get out of here. A gale is tearing
at all the shutters on this house
and I want a haircut that feels like that
howling. I need everyone to know
I’m coming for them
because I have nothing left to lose.
I’m tossing the glass jars on my vanity
and the plastic comb I drag
across my scalp. Because we all expect
to grow old and soft
and too many people I love just won’t.
I want a haircut that can stop time
so I can give myself one more hello
from her, one more of everything
before she climbs into the car
that will not make it back.
There is money in my wallet
and I want a haircut that will raise
an army. If it worked for that girl
and her ships, it can work for me.
I want a haircut that can bring down a plague
and settle a bet.
That can write its own love sonnet
and pitch a script. I’m so tired
of having this face, boring
as a faucet. Where’s the pizazz?
I want so much more than what I’m getting,
my fury bursts like a galaxy.
I want a haircut that will call God’s bluff