It’s taken me a few days to process, deal, & forgive, but the story is this:
I came home from work on Sunday to find that my darling husband had given our precious son a haircut. And not just any haircut, but….a mullet!
He cut my precious baby boy’s soft blond curls & transformed him into a miniature 1980’s power balladeer. Marriages have foundered for less.
Clearly I could not let this stand, could not subject my boy to the ridicule & shame, so I was forced to take scissors in hand and cut his hair myself. The results are not bad, hair-wise, but oh, my baby is gone, and a little Christopher Robin-boy stands in his stead.
Only with better hair, I promise.
Is there a poem for this?
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It’s textbook rush season, so I don’t have the time to write it out, but I haven’t forgotten about my forthcoming-poetry-books round-up. I’m stockpiling catalogs, or ripping pages from otherwise uninteresting catalogs, and will start posting the ones that interest me most soon.
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And I forgot to mention–I learned that my chapbook manuscript was a semi-finalist in a contest–this on its very first foray out into the dark dark world! Hurrah!
Are there other breeds besides poets who can find encouragement in so little?
Marie Gauthier 
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