Haircut

She says as long as I sweep the clippings

She will cut my hair.

 

So, I sit on the office chair and she covers

my clothes with an apron before grabbing

the comb and her extra-sharp scissors

(and her glasses).

 

I watch her in the mirror as she stares

at my head from the back. As I have never seen

the back of my own head directly, I can only imagine

what tragedy is bringing that look.

 

Perhaps I have a cottage of hair nymphs

camping back there, feeding on lice and dandruff.

They’d whistle like the seven dwarves

as they work to keep the top and front of my hair looking swell.

She cuts them off.

 

Then the sides. I guess those I see more often.

maybe something is hiding out of sight there.

A ghost of the hair that used to be there,

haunting the nymphs, and maybe whispering insecurities in my ear.

She cuts them off.

 

Then the top. I’m sure there are wildflowers

just about to bloom. But, plants usually mean dirt

which usually means bugs. And there is no nymph left

to roast them on an open fire.

She cuts them off.

 

And the front. I made that part myself.

Or I guess I shaped it.

She cuts it off.

 

When she finishes, she asks if everything looks okay.

I say yes and thank her and sweep up the nymphs and bugs,

and probably the ghosts too.

Though I never can tell if they phase through my hand.