Mom said if we were girls
she wouldn’t know what to do
with our hair. It was easier
to ship her boys Saturday
mornings to the barber. Dad
would order a number one for himself,
a light fade on the side for us
before our straight hair could wind,
uncoil in fingertips when pulled away
from the scalp. They kept our black roots
trim, the leaves never budding
in our spring. The first time
we saw a wave in our curls,
we were already swiveling
towards an apron and a palm
that held our head steady
for clippers to run over,
warm steel humming
dirges to our ears.
Geoff Anderson has an MA in Teaching English as a Second Language. He teaches “there,” “they’re,” and “their” in Columbus, OH. His work can be found in Cider Press Review, Wherewithal, and Rust + Moth, among others.