Haircuts

By September 8, 2017Poems

The same question always on her lips as the comb glides and the scissors snip snips.
But I’d say France over and over and over again and never get tired.
Then in my teens I flipped, because this trip didn’t seem so fun any more. I would ask for a trim and see
layers of my hair
d
r
o
p
p
i
n
g
to the floor.
& I never sat there with a smile, tears would leak across my cheeks, praying that it’d soon grow out, but really knowing it’d take weeks.
But the problem was never the length of my hair or how it frizzed when it dries. It was the d r e a d of having to stare myself straight in the eyes.

When your sat in that chair, you cannot hide from your reality. Eyes locked on your face, no escape from this space.
Then this week when I went for an over due trim, I looked straight on and at last, my eyes didn’t brim.
💧
💧
💧

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