When I was six-years-old, my hair was still strawberry blonde, and long enough to get caught in my belt loops. It swayed when I walked, and tangled in everything, especially itself. My mother trimmed my blunt bangs every other week, but, other than that, I never really saw a hair stylist. My hair cycled through these three stages: long, short, and bangs. Sometimes it was more like a Venn diagram, alternating between bangs and no bangs. I consider the bangs my low points in life. Not necessarily because anything momentous happened, but because they made my already-round-face look even more like an infant. I got bangs when I was too young to walk until I was six, then again at ten, thirteen, sixteen, and almost when I turned twenty-one.
When you wake me up with a kiss on my forehead, you tell me, Take a shower, we’re going out to breakfast this morning. I drive down to the strip district in my favorite baby blue romper, and you sing "Africa" by Toto to the cars as they pass by. We speed down the strip, not noticing the brightly colored eight-by-eleven posters on each door stand telling us Closed–Labor Day. My favorite diner, Pamela’s, closed, and every other sit-down restaurant, closed. Except for one or two, whose lines stretch down the street. The people fuss in the late summer heat, moving this way, and that, but not going anywhere, just trying to create the ghost of a breeze.
August rain falls on the old home,