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Description
When I was six, my aunt cut my hair into bangs.
I sobbed as I watched her scissors slice
the hair she’d brushed
into my eyes.
I kept that haircut for seven years.

When I was thirteen, my hairdresser cut all my hair off.
My first romance was over, so I had to change
dramatically.
Three feet of dirt-brown locks
formed a tangled pile on the floor.
I brushed it into the trash,
giggling about how it looked
like a small dog.

I was at the mall yesterday,
thinking back to when I was six
and Dad had moved us to Idaho (away from Mother Dearest),
where the dusty-brown scrub brush mountains
(called beautiful by the natives)
made me want to pull my bangs down into my eyes to hide the ugly view.
Clippers were on sale.
The jagged ridges that would buzz away my hair
looked like the jagged ridges of the mountains in Idaho.

I bought the clippers, but they’re still in the box.
What if I have more about myself to change?

Description
When I was six, my aunt cut my hair into bangs.
I sobbed as I watched her scissors slice
the hair she’d brushed
into my eyes.
I kept that haircut for seven years.

When I was thirteen, my hairdresser cut all my hair off.
My first romance was over, so I had to change
dramatically.
Three feet of dirt-brown locks
formed a tangled pile on the floor.
I brushed it into the trash,
giggling about how it looked
like a small dog.

I was at the mall yesterday,
thinking back to when I was six
and Dad had moved us to Idaho (away from Mother Dearest),
where the dusty-brown scrub brush mountains
(called beautiful by the natives)
made me want to pull my bangs down into my eyes to hide the ugly view.
Clippers were on sale.
The jagged ridges that would buzz away my hair
looked like the jagged ridges of the mountains in Idaho.

I bought the clippers, but they’re still in the box.
What if I have more about myself to change?