I shaved my beard,
left 12 years
in the sink.
I cut my hair,
the glow of Samson
inside of me
relinquishing my power,
but it was more
relenting to nature.
Gray hairs
are creeping through
my mustache
like ivy vines.
People say the word
“distinguished”
and I smile
but I feel
mortality.
Then I realize
I’ve just written 18 lines
about my hair
and wonder if
I don’t have better
things to do
with the time I have left.

​-- Christopher Hivner