Poem: Twentyone
A poem that's - mostly - about turning 21...
Twentyone
For my 21st birthday, he bought me a set of clippers.
It came with the slight threat: We’re going to
shave your head. I had a ponytail, which is
its own crime these days, and the plan was
first one under the table received
a complementary haircut. But we all kept drinking,
which was the only flaw in the plan. (We were better
at drinking, than planning). So, late in the afternoon
that very next day, which felt like the same day
only stretched out across a week, Richard grabbed
the clippers and stood shaving at his own hair.
He laughed as bits fell into the pint he was still drinking,
while looking like one of the reluctant Privates from
Full Metal Jacket. I outdrank them all that next day too,
returned to Wellington with my hair tickling my neck
under my shirt. And then, sometime not so long after,
in a bar one night, in front of a crowd, I took a knife
and cut my ponytail and scattered it like tiny trophies
all through the room. The owners looked disgusted.
But Richard slapped me hard on the back.
“Well done, mate”, he said, with a hard draw on his cig.
The next day my flatmate finished the job,
shaved the rest of my head. And I bought my first beanie,
but there are some things you can’t cover up completely.
