After her first seven hours away,
my daughter jumps
into the plastic pony seat,
her eyes on the video screen
set up for squirming children.
I tell the stylist just three inches please,
simple enough to remove the shredded ends
of summer, chlorinated frays from our
long, drowsing hours at the pool.
The woman snips and snips.
My daughter sees Sleeping Beauty, not
those loose coils, six inches or longer
stricken on the linoleum floor
as if they were my own, the end
of our daily chore —
twining the separate
strands into ponytails, braids —
of she and I together,
I want to cry Stop while change
is falling all around us.