You'll sit on a friend's chair,
hands fumbling in your lap
as bright red tresses float down
Like leaves in autumn.
When you look in the mirror you might
skim a hand over your head,
forgetting there's nothing there, and say,
"Damn, I feel free."
People stare, glare, size you up,
and some are bold enough to speak
(they like the sound of their voices):
"Boys like girls with long hair, dear,"
"How will you get a good job?"
(As if a man has ever been questioned
for having too-short locks)
"You should grow it out, you'd look
so much better,"
and everyone seems to think
that the ritual of hair-shaving
involved circumstances dire and bleak.
But our rituals are composed
of freedom and joy;
as our razors glide over our heads
we scrape ourselves free
of your window-dressing,
And I remind you that our worth
does not reside in our hair follicles;
you'll have to look harder for that.