I want to cut my hair
I don't want to cut my hair

It weighs me down
drags me along the
trenches of gender stereotypes

People look at me,
think,
"That's a girl."
And I'll turn the color
of diluted self-harm blood; pink.
Maybe I'll give
Being androgynous
a whirl.

It gets all knotty
I keep it in a dull, bland ponytail
I don't think it deserves more
Nor I

But if I cut it,
I'll still be in the stereotype

Here,
Another Queer!
Look there,
At their hair!
Probably gay,
By the way!

And what if I look stupid besides?

The chatter in the room is almost mundane
The woman behind me has a dog she’s keeping outside who the neighbors aren’t too fond of because he’s a bit loud at night
I got to my hair appointment almost 15 minuets late as I slipped through the door of the I suppose modern styled ‘Yellow Strawberry’ my mother was on the phone
She wears this head set that wraps around your neck and never realizes she yells when she is talking to people and it makes me cripplingly anxious
The mirrors are tall and filled with unimpressed faces glaring at us as my marvelous royal purple polyester velvet skirt glistens in the sunlight peeking in from the dropped shades
I mutter out the time of my appointment apologize that we are late and give them my name
I know it is spelt wrong in the computer, and the odds of one of the people in here having a dog named bella are unbelievable high
As I’m escorted back to my hair dressers station I remember, I need to repaint my chipped glittery red nail polish before I pick all of it off and feel disgusting
But this particular nail polish is extremely difficult to get off and I regret every-time I paint my nails with it
But it looks so ******* beautiful in the sunlight and my lover adores the color against my almost porcelain  like skin so I indulge from now and again
I am here to hopefully cut about three inches off of my hair, it’s getting too long it sits painfully at about an inch or two below my shoulders
Four months ago I cut off about 10 inches and I felt about 50 pounds of anxiety lift from my chest
I think my fears started to manifest in my curls and the knots that kept returning reminding me over and over again I needed a desperate change
And now I’m finding myself approaching another much needed change, it’s nice

the scissor is on your
nape. think away the thought, please

.

.

.

water. there's a drop stroking over the rim that is your forehead. down, down. a

tear. slips down. a tear of

blood. down more. it edges toward your jaw, neck, throat, into a

vein. crawling, descending. throughout your self and your legs,

crisscrossing. spiderveins. open into

roots, white fading to spruce. your feet are gone and you are a

tree. millions more of you but look up to your leaves, flickering green to the sunlight like

a school of fish. silver in the surrounding black. a cold, encompassing, holding, embracing

ocean. you are the water once more. only this time you meet the sky, through a gate called

horizon. endless. infinite. edging, but it only follows you and you it.


are you one with the world? if not, be the world.

you are a world.

My hair came out slowly . Stand by stand. On pillow cases and sweaters. His stayed full and long. I always envied his curl. I cut mine off and didn’t like his reaction. Mine is growing back now.  I think he cut his.

Okay so maybe I did cut my hair because I was depressed
and what's wrong with that if I did
a healthy release right
it's not something that I regretted
and I wasn't crying while I did it so
isn't it a good thing
even if that's all shaving my head did
was get me to stop crying for the 10 minutes it took for me to shave it clean
isn't that a good enough excuse
cuz it's a **** good excuse for me

I wake up. The bed is cold.
I am cold.
A gray day awaits.
I stare into the blank ceiling,
And feel an emptiness I cannot fill.
Not without her.
I stand up and shuffle across my shattered bedroom,
To the door.
The glint of the golden doorknob is the only color in this place.
I drink a tea. My mother is worried.
She's starting to notice I'm not eating at all.
Maybe...
It's time for a haircut.
A change...
From who I am. It'll do me good,
To be someone else, for a moment.
"I still love her" I think to myself, but it is silenced when I slice a hole into my head.
It is clean, a thin trail of blood which becomes a waterfall.
It streams down my face, and I keep cutting,
Blood and hair and tears falling as I stare into this broken mirror,
And the most horrible, hideous monster looks back at me.
I hate him so much, and I cut more in hopes that he will look away.
But he doesn't.
His frozen, desolate eyes stare deep into my soul,
Or rather his own,
The poor disgusting *******.
He has forgotten what it is to feel anything but pain,
And even that is escaping him.

Last night I had a little too much to drink.
How much is too much?
Hmmm, lemme think...

I.
     Got.
              Bangs.

I got bangs! Did you hear me?
I got ******* bangs!
But this wasn't a pro job...
I gave myself bangs.

Are the bangs a good haircut?
Do the bangs frame my face?
All solid questions;
It depends on your taste:

Should bangs be all jagged?
Should they move on their own?
Is it cool if they’re aflutter,
Like I’m always windblown?

Should bangs be greasy, and stringy, and frizzy?
And this here bangs cowlick, does it make me look pretty?

I was going for Taylor Swift, circa 2010.
What I got was a late ‘80s George Harrison.

These bangs are a problem,
I’m starting to think.
Maybe I can fix them,
After another strong drink.

In from the rain the barber comes,
and shimmies off his jacket.
His customers' hair
is already there,
waiting for him to attack it.

Swish! Slice! Snickerty-snack!
Face the mirror, forwards!
How ya bin?
Tilt your chin -
the hairs fall to the floorboards!