On Saturday I cut the long, long hair of my daughter
shorter.

Disentangling her
and her hair
from unfair
association with any bears.

(Or bear-related criminal activity).

Her hair long enough to sit on,
I wasn’t going to stand around
and take it lying down.

I heard the cops might profile my daughter –
might escort her,
deport her, even.

So I cut her long, long, golden hair
shorter.

(You would, too).

Her description matched
The Flaxen Attacker.

It wasn’t the bears’ fault
they were victims of crime.
At the time
they’d been out,
at a picnic,
with the Cubs,
in the woods.

No big surprise,
they’d left their door unlocked.

And at the scene of crime
this evidence was there:
one long, long, golden hair,
stuck square in a large bowl of porridge (hot).

Not only that, but
the littlest chair
had been somewhat deconstructed
(her athletic tilts).

Criminal damage, breaking and entering, hate-crime, intimidation.
It’s big, big news down at the station.

She says she wasn’t there.

To make it fair
I chopped her hair.

Took an axe to the flax.

Popped it
under some stacks
of wood
round the back,
right next to the wolf-skin
from that awful incident
with granny
last Spring.

(That would take some explaining too).