“chop it off” I tell her.
She laughs, giggles like spring
and grabs my long, tangled, tainted hair in one hand,
holds the scissors—my saviors—in the other and
Strand by strand falls to the ground in a mess—
of secrets and once-upon a time beauty and
“how much” I ask.
She tells me. It doesn’t sound like a lot.
But when I catch my reflection in the mirror,
its gone. Poof.
Looking closely, I can see my eyes a little better.
6 inches must have been the problem.
It was dragging me down and,
I walk out of the salon with a bounce.
All the bullshit sits to rot in the trashcan, so
for the first time, in a long time,
I can listen to Bob Dylan with the windows down
and not despise the wind for tangling my hair
because my hair is gone,
and for the moment, everything else is, too.
just like one of those tragic car accidents on the nightly news—
someone runs a red light
someone swerves into the wrong lane
someone brakes too late
someone lets jesus take the wheel
As I walk through the grocery store,
no one notices. But why would they?
It’s just hair, I realize.
It really changes nothing.