Hair
My father is a generous man.
He gave me height, manners,
a knack for dreaming,
a romantic side,
and the belief there is always something better
waiting around the corner.
He did not, however, give me hair.
Nearing fifty, my father still has
shielded scalp.
Though gray has snuck in over the years,
his crown remains sheltered.
I, on the other hand,
a young, angst-ridden
twenty-something, am left
watching as hairs commit suicide,
diving from my brow
with each scratch, wash,
and comb.
White coat-wrapped doctors
have suggested stress
as reason for the untimely deaths
of my head’s former companions.
As I’ve gotten older, learned, and loved,
I find myself unsure.
I’ve aged wrong.
I’ve gained the wrong knowledge.
I’ve loved the wrong women.
I’ve sat alone in unfamiliar places
and cried.
The doctors diagnosis
seems dead on, but a different culprit
comes to mind.
One minuscule meal a day.
Curved fingers forced down throat,
body worked past exhaustion.
Actions taken to carve
a new nitch for myself.
Actions possibly responsible
for the black string exodus.
A friend suggest genetics,
and reminds me of dominant
and recessive traits.
My premature balding
a mere expression of code.
Frustrated at the existence
of so many possibilities,
so many answers,
I bring my shaking hands to my head,
grab tufts of hair,
and pull.