You cut her hair. So what?
She was asking for you to cut her hair.
You were drunk and she pleading for you to cut her hair.
Her hair was bad.
It contained melanin and memories and maybe the faint smell of a fire.
It was gold and long and thick and strangling you every time you dared to fall asleep.
It held holly, sweat, and the sprinting atmosphere that lingers outside of car windows.

You both loved a man that would rather linger with birds.
You both feared the way her hair spelled his name in its strands.
You are blue and she is gold and between you is a black hole that is bound to destroy the sun.

She wanted a bow through her aura.
You cut her hair and there is nothing you can do about it.