Cut and Action

Photo by Gabbi Lunardini

I plop right down into Mooney’s chair

and prepare for her to take my hair

She coats the strands, one and each,

in goopy, drippy globs of bleach

I restrain the urge to itch and reach

a peroxide-soaked and pallid streak

Out it all comes with a wash;

the scissors inevitably kibosh

pleasantries and shallow thoughts —

we mull over the growth we’ve got

She takes out her finest sheers

and begins to take off a couple years,

careful as she carves ‘round the ears

and asks me about the roots

of wrinkles, laughs, tears

I tell her about the boy who left,

she says cancer blooms in her chest,

snip

I tell her that I’m underpaid,

she says she rarely gets laid

snip

Doctor says I’m “far too thin,”

there’s a dog she’s rescuing

snip

We trim and clear all dead ends

and ask about each other’s friends,

marveling at the sky high cost

of all the years and hair we’ve lost