I remember Christmas, when mom gave out gifts
like socks that looked like foxes, a pedometer,
and coupons for hugs. You opened a small box--
after my father's next Alex Cross novel
and mom's new watch, but before the Wii
and games we wouldn't play--and pulled out
a pink hair trimmer. I think it was meant for your
nether regions, but mom played it like
your eyebrows, which were just as out of control.
We called them ape hairs, like Phil Collins'
daughter's, only less groomed by a woman
with a smock. You were in eighth grade, sure,
but that's not an excuse for hygiene. Or so
someone said. Excited, you skipped two steps
up the stairs and we heard the high pitched whir,
your smile and then a scream. You shaved
your left eyebrow off, yelling at mom to fix it,
and I imagined, somehow, she would glue
each follicle back, fingers trembling, breathing
like a trainer in the ring with Rocky. Will Phil sing
the background song? Will Adrian or Maria Cross
come back from the dead to see this through?
No, it's just a brown pencil from Target
and three months of ten minute shading.
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