A bald baby.

Golden locks, auburn in the sun. 

Scissor blades on animal fur.

The disappointment of the father.

The brilliant conclusion was reached by a four-year-old mind.

Cut in a straight line from temple to occipital.

Above the ear.

A week before the family Christmas photo.

The night mother returned from the conference in D.C.

 

Tines cause pain like knives. 

Hair ripped from the scalp.

Tears. Wailing.

For the sake of the beauty of a six-year-old girl. 

Pain is beauty. Therefore, when it hurts I am beautiful

It hurts.

So I must be doing it right.

 

A growing emptiness.

Hair, pressed between paper and a magic sharpie will not stay that glittering golden color.

Even if you never wash it again. 

Instead, it will hang, stringy. 

It is a badge of pain, unfelt, wordless.

All can see. But our own eyes cannot reach the back of our heads. 

“I’m the happiest I have ever been”

Crushed under the weight of nothing.

 

Electric blue.

Something clicks.

Clown hair. Whoops. 

Emeralds.

Roses. 

Nebula. 

A new tennis ball.

This hair does not call a name. 

It does not state an identity.

Never have I felt more welcome.