summer of 73

when

i finally cut my hair,

it had grown

long,

way past my shoulders.

parted in the middle

like Pocahantas

on the butter

box.

i was

a product of the times.

a faux

revolutionary,

just playing along.

but

i needed a job,

so i took the headband

off and

went to the barber shop

where old Joe
took out his shears

and made quick

business of it all.

as the locks fell

to the floor

i suddenly realized 

that making money,

and surviving

was more important

than

some idealistic cause.