The Hair Cut
As a child, I hated getting my hair cut.
Pixie-haired-me; never had a chance;
Mom would always insist and enforce,
the hair cut of doom.
I would sit in that awful chair;
itching, squirming, bawling me;
a prisoner of the scissor-beast.
When the ugly was complete;
how Mom would brag,
about the talent, of the scissor-beast.
Unfortunately, the kids in the neighborhood;
Never quite saw that talent
and until I was in the forth grade;
I was labeled, “boy”.
This, nickname, grossly lacked appeal.
Kids chided me about being a boy in a dress;
hammering out cruel insults and names.
One day, I said, “I don’t like pixies.”
This statement was followed,
by what elephant tears I could juice,
from my ducts for the next half hour.
Mom didn’t understand until I spilled
the pitcher of nicknames, which I daily endured.
Then she asked my preference…
“Mom, I want to just let it grow.”
She responded with,
“You’ll regret it; long hair is a tangled nightmare!”
My mom was the queen of child manipulation.
She failed to realize, that I was on to her schemes,
She gave her firm reply,
“Ok, but, the first tangle, that I see;
It’s all coming off!”
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