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Hair Like a Campfire

My boy who doesn’t want a haircut. Who’s said so all summer. Who doesn’t even want our fingers to pull his hair to its full height and then sweep it out of his eyes like he’s a school boy. From 1950. Who combs his locks with his fingernails back into place each time. Quickly, like his arms are exercising. And yet who yesterday, by his own hand, snipped the rooster tail flapping on top of his head. Cut it right off before we headed to church. Him. He’s gone to camp. Dropped off this morning. Gone to grow older in a week. Gone to create memories he’ll chatter about for the rest of the year. Gone to be unrecognizable on Saturday at pick up time except for that orange hair, likely only washed in the lake.

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