The Cutting of Hair by Larry Smith

My wife cuts my hair
has done so for 20 years
since my crop fell off.
Even when we've argued
we roll out the chair,
draw out the clippers and
scissors from the drawer.
She touches my shoulders,
from behind and robes me
in a half-sheet pinned at the neck.
A buzz rolls over my skull;
gray hair falls down my arms.
My chatter soon subsides
to the quiet of her caring
as she focuses on ears,
comes round to bring
scissors to eyebrows.
She loosens the sheet
and I gather it up
to shake hair outside
while she cleans and
puts away tools.
How I love this woman.
It's a ritual as old as
Eve and Adam, the
cutting of hair.

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