Cutting Ryan's Hair Poem by Edward Steinhardt

for Ryan

You sat on the edge of my tub
As I ran the clippers
Through your hair.
Clumps of your hair
Fell like snowflakes
As the noise of my small engine
Of vibrating, crossing blades
Filled-up the silence between us.
As you moved to shake hair
From your shoulders,
I bade you to sit still;
For you would
Have to wear my mistake
Like some badly-shorn sheep
Sent out to the field again
To grow his beauty back.

There were close calls, surely;
When I almost cut too close.
But all in all, my mental 'oops'
Did not need to be given voice,
Except for the 'turn right, '
And 'turn left, now.'
Your implicit trust was heartwarming,
On a January evening
When the wind blew cold
Just outside the window.

You turned to face me finally,
And your eyes were hopeful
That I'd done my magic right.
You finally grabbed the mirror,
Looked at your reflection,
And turned your head
From side to side.
Save an errant hair,
You were pleased,
In those few sculptured
Norman Rockwell moments.