A Part
Every Sunday morning,
when I was five or six,
my father would wet and comb my hair
before we rushed out of the house
to nine o'clock Mass.
He would work on that part
five or six times
till it was flawless.
But...
Why would he part my hair?
He never parted his hair.
Even as a kid,
as black and white photos from the '20s and '30s told me,
he combed his thick, wavy hair straight back.
Why would he part my hair?
Didn't we have the same hair?
I probably mastered combing my hair,
parting my hair,
when I was seven
...and he never combed my hair again.
I parted my hair till I was 18,
when my sister Aimee cut my hair
one weekend she was home.
She recognized I didn't need a part.
But...
My hair fell forward, not backward like Dad's.
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