hair-do's and don'ts

i consult the tibetan calendar
when it is time for a hair-do..
the calendar offers up the results of
getting one's hair sheared on the
different days of the lunar calendar..
my pelt was shorn today ..
the outcome is well-being..

on other days you may end up
with these consequences -
strife and quarrels, slander,
sickness, short life..(and hair!)

some days offer these results-
auspiciousness, increase in virtue,
intelligence, greater wang tang..
(be careful on that last one!)

great power is woven
within the threads of our heads..
remembre samson..
whose vow was not to cut his hair
nor take the taste of vine..

many claim i am superstitious
when it comes to my shear date..
i hold it sacred and honor the day..
the power is transformed..not betrayed..
(as in samson's case..)
short it may be.. it carries energy..
it covers the roof of my head
like turf on a island cottage..
the time to prune is held holy..
yet not too precious...

no bad hair days..
that's my intent
no bad days...


refugio's hair
~alberto ríos

in the old days of our family,
my grandmother was a young woman
whose hair was as long as the river.
she lived with her sisters on the ranch
la calera--the land of the lime--
And her days were happy.
but her uncle carlos lived there too,
carlos whose soul had the edge of a knife.
one day, to teach her to ride a horse,
he made her climb on the fastest one,
bareback, and sit there
as he held its long face in his arms.
and then he did the unspeakable deed
for which he would always be remembered:
he called for the handsome baby pirrín
and he placed the child in her arms.
with that picture of a madonna on horseback
he slapped the shank of the horse's rear leg.
the horse did what a horse must,
racing full toward the bright horizon.
but first he ran under the álamo trees
to rid his back of this unfair weight:
this woman full of tears
and this baby full of love.
when they reached the trees and went under,
her hair, which had trailed her,
equal in its magnificence to the tail of the horse,
that hair rose up and flew into the branches
as if it were a thousand arms,
all of them trying to save her.
the horse ran off and left her,
the baby still in her arms,
the two of them hanging from her hair.
the baby looked only at her
and did not cry, so steady was her cradle.
her sisters came running to save them.
but the hair would not let go.
from its fear it held on and had to be cut,
all of it, from her head.
from that day on, my grandmother
wore her hair short like a scream,
but it was long like a river in her sleep.