“Hair” by Joseph Jordan-Johnson received second place in the 2015 Glazner Prize for Creative Writing contest, sponsored by SFUAD’s Creative Writing and Literature Department.   Roots I have my father’s hairline. A widow’s jut in the middle of my forehead. I have naps—scalp clumsy.   His waves were smooth, current-cut, razor-precise. He never told me how he keeps the gray from creeping in.   He is 53, a silver fox smile cutting from ear to ear. My scalp is too oily, lacquered, pore-thick.   My hair runs bristle wired, strung, dry and clumped. I have ignored how he taught to keep it clean.               Cut They are rigored, the coroner’s faint clipper buzz is a lullaby.   There seems to be less hair on the floor each time I cut,   less tufts to sweep, less bodies to hide.                               Shower It is hot, in the way that pain cries. Holy, in God’s new breath,   it is His steam that will bring more wrath than Murray’s wave gel,   the things my father always used. The things I learned to hate.               Shave More scratch than bite— less rough along the grain. The basin of the tub   runs black and red, nicks of hair crawling to the drain.   I hear them howl, there is wrath in each pull each razor-tear each   pore less bloody than the other. They are him, not His.               Dry Fresh. Something God has assumed. Something only death can say. I am bulbous, not whitehead, not ready to pop.   There are years I have shaved– fifty-three bags all in a pile. The buzz has stopped. The wrath looks less bloody. The zipper closes.   Joseph Jordan-Johnson is a senior at...