The Braid
Its weight unfelt
until absent, the
braid lies on
the hair dresser’s
table. No tears
in my chair,
she said, and
there were none.
In the Twenties,
this was scandalous,
women cutting off
their hair. What’s
left is grey.
Today women cut
their hair when
the divorce is
final, or when
he leaves. In
rage, or mourning,
or relief, they
take the scissors
to their own
heads; or, light-
headed, they step
out of salons,
new women. The
hair dresser sweeps
the floor, packs
away the braid
for the wig-
makers. Left behind,
a foot or
two of plaited
history. We shake
our heads, remember
that forgotten gesture,
pushing bangs from
the eyes,
running
our own
fingers
through
our own
short
fresh
curls.
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