Sitting with long, white hair
in my old age, no haircuts
during the pandemic,
I reflect on my hippie years.
Standing in the bathroom
of a Florida motel with my cronies
I looked in the mirror,
a crew cut stub fronted my forehead,
a little water matted it down.
Terrible time for the barbers,
I did not cut my hair for six years,
a badge of honor, like ladies
not shaving underarms and legs.
There was a war, a terrible war,
the youth of our nation
rebelling in every area of life.
Growing your hair long
or leaving your body hair on
was a statement of protest
against those who wanted
body counts.
It was the Age of Aquarius.
A musical celebrated
those extended follicles.
And it was cool.
Originally published in Highland Park Poetry