the breakup haircut

you should put your finger in a damn or
smile proudly on the side of a can of paint
with that haircut.

i imagine how it went


the italian woman scrutinizing your locks -
the rungs of the scissors making white circles on the knuckles her thick sausage link fingers as she enclosed your view with a curtain of silken black sheen.

your eyes not peering beyond the void until her crunch-crunch sound freed your face with a
new left side part.

it should made you look thinner
your eyes fuller - more pronounced
your neck long and kissable
and it nearly does.

when you pointed to picture of the model with the blazing purple eye shadow, the Italian woman grabbed the book and looked at the date - 1987 - frowned.

"but you don't have split ends! your long hair is perfect - just a trim."

your middle finger placed over the model's face - tap tap. defiance.

with each layer sliced, the sound of it became more piercing than the weight lifted from your rib cage, still can't get a deep breath.

you notice the Italian woman had tuna for lunch.
She notices the dots of tiny beauty marks forming a little dipper below your earlobe.

in the chair next to you a woman over 30 begs for red hair - "buy a wig" her own hair dresser advises.

"This one! Couldda made a wig with all that hair I just chopped!"

she bends low, hinges on enormous hips, grabs a clump of you and shakes it roughly at your face.

you catch a glimpse of your self in the mirror and half cock a smile.
its just a haircut.

one that says dutch more than ditch.






....