Shawn Aveningo

Farrah Fawcett’s “Do”
swept through Midwestern suburbia
like a cyclone.

I was thirteen
when I found myself catapulted
into quests for pop-icon beauty.
I bleached. I curled.
I colored. I ironed.
I fought each strand after fly-away-mousy-brown strand.

I lost.
Never quite the angel I believed
I should be.

* * * * *

The doctor tells me
the side effects can be severe:
Nausea. Taste of metal.
Lack of libido. Loss of weight.
Loss of hair.
Loss of hair.
Loss of hair.

I am thirty-three.
I fear losing myself
with each pass of the clippers.
Strand after fly-away mousy-brown strand
floats down to my feet.

The side effects can be severe:
Discovery. Hope.
Courage. Survival. Resolve.
I am not my hair.
I am not my hair.
I am not my hair.

Grateful.
And not an angel.