Here's a poem Carolyn wrote about ten years ago.

Hair

by Carolyn Farkas

I’ve watched my hair grow long, the last ten years,

too long for someone well past middle age.

For birthdays, anniversaries, such events,

the beautician who smooths my twisted curls

suggest some style that would be simpler, shorter, right,

easy to live with,

and I must answer.

How should I decline?

I pause, as though I listened to her thought,

then speak “No, not today.

Just trim uneven ends,

but leave me long for now.

I must hurry. So much to do.”

How can I tell her that I need to see its length,

each time I shower,

that moment when it snakes down my neck,

crawls to my chest

and covers the decade-old scar on my left breast,

reminder of what once made me lose my hair

but let me keep it now,

for so long, so long.