Poem: Unshorn

cherry-mahogany reaching down my back
siren-signal calling out “touch me”
—to men—
or “hate me”
—to the hags—
Don’t tell me short hair is fashionable:
I don’t follow trends
—trends are for morons—
shorn sheep bleating rationalizations

Never cut your hair.

Do not fall prey to the matriarchs
who want you to remain
a sexless child
unthreatening

Nor to the fashion mavens
who want you to remain
a fearful child
unquestioning

—either way—
waiting for permission
and their bullshit approval
controlling your body
your mind
your life.