My boys want Elvis hair –
Not Aaron Carter or Justin Timberlake hair
But Elvis hair.

And thank God not Eminem bleached
Or Moby no hair
But Elvis hair.

And when they come dripping
From the shower and ask me to comb it
Like he did in Jailhouse Rock

I can’t help but tease
As they stand on tiptoes
And peek at the mirror,

“How do you know I’m not doing
Frankie Avalon or Paul Anka?”
And they show me with their hands

While they speak, “Because you always scoop out
The sides, give the front that big wave
And comb the back into a D.A. What’s a D.A.?”

I know the cruelty that can be children so I say
“Isn’t it just good to have
A little mystery?”

Then, after combing, we go to choose clothes,
Tight jeans and black shirts.
No mystery there.

No Bow-Wow pants,
No grunge clothes that could start
A war over holes, over nothing.

Just something the King would wear,
At least in his early years.
Yes, better to give my boys

The early years to identify with
Rather than the jumpsuit days.
If you’re a seven-year-old

You want to go to school
Dressed like the young Elvis
Because there’s nothing worse for your ego

Than the jumpsuit days, and having
Someone ask, teasing or not,
If you’re Evel Knievel.

Jim Gwyn


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