A mass of tight bright curls
crowned little brother’s head
just like his sister and father
in their very young days.
He hated having it brushed
would not keep still at the
hairdresser’s. Right from the day
of his very first haircut when
the hairdresser asked Mum to
stand at the shop window holding
little brother so he could watch
the cars go by. His head turned to
and fro as her pointed at each passing
car, talking excitedly as the
hairdresser snipped at passing curls.
The resulting haircut was adequate
but not one she was proud of.
Last week, two years later, little
brother went to the hairdresser,
sat still as she trimmed each curl.
This time the curls did not spring back
as she clipped, but stayed straight
just like his sister’s and father’s.
Mum is grieving.
Those curls are growing out.
Going …… going …… gone.