Hairy stuff: a poem & 3 photos

This new face

I need practice wearing this new face the windows
tell me is mine, the follicles abandoned like rows
of trenches; beggared by the rich heads of girls
I foresee how the years will scythe my sons' curls,
extending their foreheads to their crowns,
the shared comb's cardings in our drains.

This is my inheritance, with incisors
whose neat mating the dentist admires,
from my shadowy but balding ancestors,
their bare pates shining in the light of their fires.

hair in Herm, aged 3

hair in Adelaide, aged 10, with my grandmother

hair in Quebec, aged 20, with a racoon.