Growing Out

by Tayler Koppenaal

1.

My mother loved brushing my hair 

when I was a child. She forced the bristles 

through the knots. I sat quietly, but my scalp screamed 

when she pulled my hair closer to her eyes. 

She whispered, I wish I had your hair.

She stroked my head as she ran her fingers 

through her own short strands. Finally, she gave up 

on the brushing, reached for her phone, dialed the salon. 

A few days later, the stylist draped 

a cutting gown over me. Her hands lathered 

and rinsed before she combed. The metal scissors snipped 

inches from my back. I watched my locks fall

on the dirty tiles as my mother sat

in the waiting chair insisted on cutting more. 

When we were all finished, I swiveled around 

to my mother, with her phone held up for a photo. 

Then she grabbed my cut ends with a smile. 

2. 

When my mother moved away, I let my hair grow 

long and full. I let it lift in the wind. Curls sprang

free after an hour spent over the bathroom counter

with the jaws of a curling iron.

When I saw her again, she looked with folded arms 

and asked me to do that to her hair. 

So I took strands as if spun by spiders 

and marked with streaks of gray. I twirled the webs

on the hot barrel, but her hair remained flat.