The Haircut

It was a time for short haircuts,

and my head of hair was a target

for my dad’s clippers and scissors.

My grandfather was a barber,

but my dad was not.

 

“Sit still” or “Sit up”

were frequent commands

during the shearing.

He was either pushing my head forward,

tilting it from side to side, or

lifting up my chin

in order for dad

to make those fine adjustments...

 

For a boy to sit still or not to slouch

for thirty minutes or more in a chair

was bordering on the miraculous.

Wiggly and wired,

I was ready to be set loose.

Dad never picked up on the

military’s fast shearing methods.

I can still see my father’s face

when I was allowed to leave the chair.

He was as proud as a peacock

of his handiwork on my head.

Thankfully, my hairy feathers

were located up front!

The rest of my head was shorn like sheep.

I was later informed

that my hair was purposely left short

to keep from losing it...