I have a scary image in my head
every time I glance in the mirror now.
Days have gone by and I don't stop staring.
I mumble, forming my thoughts into words
as I glare at the image before me.
Then my words become louder, and I keep
slowly leaning forwards, but I won't bow.
I inspect my hair, piece by piece, I pull
at the split ends that look really awful.
I used to like my hair, it was pretty,
but those scissors there, that rest on the sink,
have never looked so inviting before.
How easy it would be to cut my hair,
the long strands that they all claim to be fair,
just take the scissors and cut your **** hair!
Just take the scissors and cut your **** hair!
But there is something that still keeps me here,
I won't cut it, because I think I'd care.
*Just take the scissors and cut your **** hair.