So your curls have been singed from the heat of a man’s fingers, injured from his wedding ring that plucked your strands as if snipping petunias at the stem. You are a ball of black thread in his palm, and he leaves with you tucked in his jean pocket.
This is when you’ll know it’s time for a trim.Your scissors are dull, and their blades haven’t been used since they cut chains of people from construction paper. Pick them up and thank them for their versatility. It’s these or the pocketknife he left on the nightstand.
Begin snipping away the ribbons that your mother delicately tied for you at birth. Watch the knots and tattered bows land on your discarded clothing.
How many curls did you devote to him? Keep cutting as you count the vacant spots on your scalp. It’s been so long since you’ve last had openings. You remember the raven tresses he tugged were dyed and take pleasure in knowing that you’re naturally a light brunette.
Your hand will cramp, but you’ve almost sheared away the odor of musk stirred into your oils, a pungent concoction of weed and desire that kept your nostrils open but your conscience blind.
Hold your breath. Keep cutting.At some point there will be almost no more hair. Ringlets now spreadeagled on the hardwood, the floor peppered with enough c’s and o’s to remind you of his company, but comb your fingertips through the strands that remain. See how you’ve grown since the last time your hair was this short?
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