poetry

COVID haircuts

COVID haircuts

my boys bow their heads
and trust me with the scissors

like so many other bits of parenting
I’ve never done this before

at the first bite of shear against hair
Cedar squeals

my knitting scissors, the sharpest we have,
tug his locks as they slice

he fidgets and questions –
things he wouldn’t do with the barber –

and when the tips of the blades
nip him above the ear

we both know this cut is over
even with no blood drawn

I’m slightly more practiced for Owen
(the reverse of our usual pattern)

I know to use my left hand
as a guard against maiming

only cut my own flesh this time
and say nothing of the small red thread

I start with his bangs
the most critical, bothersome part

in case this session is also abruptly ended
by my carelessness

he is patient
I am sloppy

but manage to at least
give him back his sight

in the end he looks younger –
the opposite of a skilled cut –

but before bed after shower
washed, brushed, and slicked to the side

he looks presentable
says something about liking it short

as always
I bow to my children next

thankful for the latest new thing
they’ve allowed me to learn

poetry

trimming

trimming

my father
tall and lanky
briefly looking the Irishman
he was (but never mentioned):
white forearms
with dark, feathery hairs
languid fingers built for piano
an army flattop
and a shiny class ring
poised
over a friend who’s praying
Bill will clip his thicket of hair
faster than a parent can drive

my dad’s short-sleeved Henley’s
just like the one
I stole from my mother’s drawer
to bridge the gap
between the ‘60’s and me.

he’s focused and bemused
but there’s something off-putting
in those intense Goyaesque hands
that I noted on the hospital bed
and his cheekbones honed by hunger

today a man I never met
gifted me a revelation:
our parents had lives
we know nothing about
plus there’s still an awkward teenager
in every one of us