However, I like wearing my hair long.
The second time was less under my control. I had an unfortunate physical ailment the last two Fall semesters, and the first bout of it forced me to get a fairly traumatic A-line haircut. It was cute. Many people did not understand quite why I was so upset about it. I realized there was an underlying reason (aside from the fact that I look fabulous in cascading curls). This poem was written between Traumatic Haircut of Despair: Numbers 1 and 2, and provides a bit of explanation. It is on a more serious note then the above, rather trite, introduction.
My Mama’s Curls
“Why don’t you cut your hair short again? It’d look so cute that way!”
I looked back at you closely, not sure of what to say.
My mind’s eye sees a mem’ry, so long ago, so clear
Of my mama on the telephone, and I was standing near.
She tossed her head back and she laughed— A truly joyful sound
And on her finger, auburn-red, she twirled her hair around.
It wrapped around that finger, always just the same
A pretty fan of brown, gold, red; and never truly tame.
She rubbed the curl across, stroking gently with her thumb
Then let go and toss it back, then take another one
I snuck around behind her to try to do the same
Watching oh so closely, then went to grab my mane
Of hair. I then remembered, with a sudden sorrowful sigh
That I’d gone to get a haircut, now my hair would not comply
As I tried to wrap my finger. I then began to cry
I told myself right then and there, that someday I would be
Exactly like my mama, the woman of my dreams.
That mem’ry of the phone call, and the twisted lock of hair
Stayed with me then and always, but never had I shared
The reason that I always felt a love for curled long hair.
“Hello?” you said, and waved at me, “Sabina, are you there?”
“Oh,” said I, now with a smile,
“I guess I just like it better long.”
--Sabina Säfsten, 3/23/09 (1:30am)