cemetery of hair

i cut barbie doll hair

i never had many dolls 
& i wanted them in a guilty
kind of way 

i knew they were girly 
& i didn't want to be girly 
but i wanted to explore bodies--

when i'd go over
other girl's houses for
sleep overs i would always find
their dolls--

i craved to be alone with them--

with their impossible waists
& tangled plastic hair

i recall a sleep over
where i got up in the middle
of the night to play alone
with my friend's dolls

i undressed them--

their skin grinning in
the dim light coming
in the windows

i was fascinated by their
nipple-less breasts--

their tip-toed feet
poised almost like horse hooves

i knew i wasn't shaped
like them--

i ran my fingers 
over my stomach & my sides
a red anjou pear
dangling from a tree branch--

i drank nectar from aluminum cans

did the other girls notice
my haunting fascination?

did they catch me--
dolls in my hands-- disrobing 
them respectfully one by one--

i had few of my own

i hoarded the pair 
of big red scissors
my mom used for cutting yarn

cutting their plastic follicles
on the floor of my bed room--

my own hair long down my 
back-- 

it was always mischief making knots
to be yanked out in the morning
before school

tired mouth 
of my mother's brush--

i want to draw
some deeper conclusion about us-- 
about us girls who 
cut our barbie's hair

about how years later
i would sit in a salon chair
& tell them to take it
all off--

even now i sometimes
fantasize about clippers
making a front lawn 
of my skull--

i want to tell the barber

yes yes cut be down to the bone--

or maybe i cut barbie hair 
because i wasn't a girl at all--

making boys 

i re-dressed 
my dolls in GI-Joe shirts 
& camouflage pants--

sometimes making them 
clothes from scratch-- 
pipe-cleaners & felt--

but there are other 
girls yes, other girls
who cut off their dolls hair--

do we have something in common?

is it purely the sensation?

the hair falling?

the faint sensation of god-likeness 
for young girls who are learning
that the word will
always have a say 
over their bodies

did we free our dolls then?

we knew their hair wouldn't grow back

but our always will--

even now i'm touching my face 
my hair my skin

what can be erradicated
with red scissors?

will my skin someday be
plastic-- trembling in my own
girl-hands

lit through the window 
by street light 

when i cut their
hair i buried it in 
the soil behind the garage--

i walk on 
a cemetery of hair