Barbershop Existentialism I gave my first haircut on a Sunday afternoon. My training--a six minute YouTube tutorial-- That taught me how to fade Hair cut with size 2 clippers Into hair cut with size 4. (The secret is size 3.) Afterward I swept my husband's hair Into a plastic sandwich bag Unwilling to part with his locks. Last week on a cemetery walk A friend and I discussed what we would do with ashes, Ours and others. I'm afraid to possess ashes Or linger about myself on a shelf. I fear violating a local ordinance with My last bodily act if I'm scattered to the winds. Internment seems like my best option, perhaps in an unmarked grave, Because all memorials fade and chip and erode, Giving in to the entropy of the universe. I hang on to things like hair and souvenirs and diaries In hopes that they will gain significance, But in my most anxious moments, I sometimes wish all traces of me would vanish. We are from dust and To dust we shall return. But where did dust come from? And who needs a haircut?