Jamie J. Barker
Terrible Hair
“We have terrible hair,” she said to me
at bottle feedings and christenings
and in those mirrored rooms where
training bras and wedding gowns are chosen.
“Look at her hair,” my mother said
when thick bobs bounced by or
a swell of curls fell down a girl’s back.
“We have terrible hair.”
Our mother sat us at the kitchen table.
She placed a strip of scotch tape along
the bottom of our bangs. “Hold still,”
she said, and snipped a straight line
“You have terrible hair.”
My sisters and I draped dishtowels
over our heads and tossed them
like the girls with the good hair.
We combed the long hair of our dolls
and let the strands run through our fingers.
In the car we held Barbie out the window
and watched her long tresses fly in the wind.
But wasn’t there an autumn day
when the light was thick with gold?
We walked on downtown’s mall
properly dressed in black Mary Jane’s,
and in a window I saw a shimmer.
Silky fine hair with a honey hue
flapping lightly like ribbons
in the October sun.