Curls

Sweaty baby hairs curling against my forehead 

The nurse comes to check and says, “It’s almost time. I feel his hair.” 

I am overwhelmed. 

Try as I might, I could never quite guess how you would look. Suddenly I imagine one unequivocal feature. 

You have hair. 

And you are FINALLY almost here.

Dark curls

They cover your scaly, oblong, newborn head. 

“Of course that’s what you look like,” I think, as they place you on my chest. I realize you’re no stranger to me. 

Within weeks, the dark curls fall out; leaving naught but a ring fit for an octogenarian. In time they grow back, blonde now.

Baby curls

Mussy, messy, matted, mop scintillating in the sunrise streaming in as you scrub sleep from sweet little eyes. 

Soft curls; fluffy, unruly, and just as perfect as you.

Bath time curls

Slicked straight, dripping droplets onto little eyelashes while you splish and splash; then hooded under a towel, “Peek-a-boo!” 

Scrubbed and brushed and dewy, baby curls at their very curliest; leaving a damp spot on my shirt where your head rests warmly while I read aloud a story that lulls you to sleep sweetly.

Unruly curls

Time to tame the tiny mullet.

Snip. 

Snip.

Curls dropping one by one. 

Then I step back to look at you and see that the scissors have grown you up. 

I look down. Tiny bits of you on the floor. The most precious baby curls that I have loved so well, but you don’t need them, growing boy. More perfect bits of you will grow to replace them. 

Baby curls

I sweep them into the pan and then stare, wondering for a moment if I should keep these curls tucked away safe somewhere. Momentarily I tip them into the bin and watch them float away forever.

This is a poem about hair, but it’s also a poem about children who grow up and the parents who fall in love with each version of them as they do and the beautiful ache of letting go of the baby curls.