"When your hair grew too long," my mother says,
"My father took you to the barber and had it cut off
while I cried and cried."
"How much hair was it?" I ask, but I already know.
"Not a lot," she replies. She’s lying.
I’ve seen the before pictures.

My shiny red hair hadn’t quite been shoulder length,
but my grandfather was worried I’d be mistaken for a girl.
This, clearly, was unacceptable.

"I kept a lock of it," she shows, taking out a baggie of bright auburn
hair.
There’s a piece of paper within the hair. I read the date.

"This says it’s from seventy eight.
That’s way too late to be my first haircut, Mom."
"You’re right," she says, taking the hair back,

"This can’t be from that traumatic cut."
"So there’s no record of my original hair?" I ask.
"I guess not."

For some reason, this bothers me more
than it does my mother.