So, I’m almost 50 and
I still think about my hair.
I’ve written poems about my hair
and here goes another one.
I’m growing it out again–
which I’m pleased to say,
I’m still able to do,
but embarrassed to say
that I’ve given it this much
thought. I’m revisiting
(this time around) my
hair from the last decade
of the 20th century,
which basically means
I’m growing a kind of fountain
off the top of my head,
keeping it short around the ears
and in the back and letting
all hell break loose above.
The stylist, barber, hair artist,
(what do we call them now?)
who gave me a beer and cut my
hair today said to me she thought
I was going for a professorial look,
and I was at once complimented
and insulted. Complimented, because,
yes, I am the professor, but insulted
because the real motivator behind
growing more hair is about the rock and roll.
This is rock and roll hair, you, girl with scissors,
or, at least, what this particular old guy
imagines when he thinks of rock and roll
and his own silver hair in the same sentence together.
michael jarmer 