My Hair

Boys aren’t supposed to grow their hair long.
Growing up that’s all I heard
But I always wanted to.

I saw all those girls with pretty long hair
Running down their backs
And oh, I wanted hair like that!
Hair that could hide my face
When it suited me.

My Mother didn’t care,
She told me I could as long
As I kept it clean.

So I grew it out,
I still remember the first time
I realized it was touching my shoulders.

Later I realized what this was
All about, and it had
Very little to really do with my hair.

It wasn’t the girl’s hair I was
Jealous of.
It was her, I wanted more than anything
To be her.

But I’m very good at denial.
Eventually though that thought
Came through.

And after several years of wearing my
Hair short.
I began to grow it out again.
It’s past my shoulder blades now.
It’s a symbol of something I’ll
Never quite be. Something that
Will always haunt me.

I know what I look like.
It isn’t pretty.
They’ll never hand me
Any beauty awards.

But I’m keeping my long hair,
And when I travel to certain parts of
My home state I get called
A “faggot” a lot.
Little kids make fun of me,
The same little girls I would have been
Envious of as a child whisper
“Boys shouldn’t be allowed
To have long hair.”

It hurts.

Still sometimes strangers surprise me
And tell me they think my hair is

I’m more grateful for that then
Anyone will ever know.

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