Every six weeks, Mom gets her hair cut. Jen, a daughter of a neighbor up the street, is the beautician who cuts Mom’s hair. During the warm months of spring, summer, and fall, Jen comes to Mom’s house to cut her hair. Mom sits in a camp chair in the garage while Jen works her magic, and Jen sweeps up afterward. During the colder months, Mom sits at the kitchen table while Jen carefully snips here and there. Mom’s hair cut is not fancy, but is cute, and matches her fun personality. Once flaxen brown, Mom’s hair is now the prettiest white. Attending Mom’s community orchestra concerts, before Covid shut down public events, my children and I always looked for grandma’s white hair at her violin stand, proud of her for being talented and engaged and happy. Dad has always been fond Mom’s hair beautiful. A few years ago, he told me of coming back to bed on a winter morning and observing tenderly his wife’s white hair as she lay sleeping. Some time after, I wrote this short poem, entitled “Morning”: Warm sun in winter / hurtles white-capped / peaks and rushes through / wide windows / to halt and hover / over a head of tousled white / hair, aged, peaceful / upon her pillow.
(Pictured above: Mom and Dad after receiving their first Covid-19 vaccinations.)