An Ode To His Wild Curls

My Beautiful Beautiful Boy, I watched as scissors slipped between curls finding their way, nipping at years. I watched as they pushed past time and essence of my beautiful boy, uncovering a bigger boy.

My beautiful boy held his locks with pride as they floated their way to our floor. He gathered them. He showed them, like a man holding a child. But it was my boy holding a piece of his childhood. I gathered myself at the corner of the table, looking and not, nodding and elated, grappling and heart aching for my beautiful boy and his wild curls. 

My beautiful boy, who I only encouraged to let it grow, “Let’s just snip a little.” “No mommy, I want a lot.” My beautiful boy who asked time and time again, “I think it should be shorter now?” “But boys can have long hair!” I replied energetically. “But I don’t think I want to always have long hair.” replied my beautiful boy. “Well let’s wait, because maybe it’s only because he said this or she said that.” “Okay.” replied my boy. 

My beautiful boy grew older that evening, and it feels larger than I thought. Beautiful boys’ transitions feel slim and hardly tangible, or even told. But the stork bite shined brighter on my beautiful boy. The energy grew louder on my beautiful boy. His eyes swelled and the chest grew out on my beautiful boy. 

My beautiful boy and his curls. At  night I gather what remains as I rub his head to sleep, as we always do. As he sleeps, my fingers feel the difference on my beautiful boy, and my eyes see the difference too, and I think surely, how lucky I am that beautiful boys remain beautiful boys no matter the month, season, year, or cut.