Bettie MacIntyre

Shorn Locks

He was five, and I was three,

he led, I followed, a happy me.

Carried out a stool and sat me down.

Under the Lilac tree, fragrance abound.

Mother’s scissors in a small hand,

blonde curls cut and fell to the ground.

Covered the grass and all around,

Never a whimper or a sound.

He claimed with glee,

“Now you’re a boy just like me.”

Took her by her tiny hand,

inside to show her to mother and friends.

In the house, it was to be,

for mother’s friends had come to tea.

They sat around with China grand,

Held by their dainty glove in hand.

“Oh, mother look,” girl softly said,

“now, don’t you think I look like Ed?”

A cry sprang from our mother’s lips,

“Where has our girl gone, and who is this?”

“It’s me, your girl, as just before,

remember me three, soon to be four?”

Father’s step crunched up the path,

he looked then gave a gasped.

He tried to look stern, but scorn gave in,

rushed over with a frown, then turned to a grin.

Scooped up his shorn child and to the car,

and off to the barbershop, it wasn’t too far!

Long are gone the curly blonde tresses.

Hard to keep this child in dresses.

She’s romping after her brothers,

climbing trees and running races.

She was tumbling over fences and picking flowers.

She was scrambling with the romping boy’s.

Climbing and running all the while,

turning up nose and winsome smile.

Petals have a way of falling

When the rose has left, it’s calling.

Little children are long gone blooms

Lost in grown-ups too soon.

Secret memories in hiding

Bring back for long ago biding.

by Lois Wheelock 1930’s