Even the scissors' tail is a ringlet
that curves to the hairdresser's finger.
Snip. Silver glints. Snip.
I sense movement, air swishing.
My curls drop; hit the floor
without a sound.
"Okay?" The stylist stops,
stands back. "When you're ready."
Silence slices her words;
reveals sharp edges.
I look in the mirror, adjust-
Clippers buzz: my scalp bared
like the gash of bark scraped from a tree.
I watch fingers flutter around my head-
and wait for the sap to dry.