Haircut.
She sits still under the red nylon poncho, staring into the mirror in front of her, watching strands of black slide down the poncho onto the white tile floor. The hairdresser darts about, to her left, to her right, snipping off pieces of hair that she randomly picks up. She wonders if the lady knows what she is doing. But hey, she thinks to herself, I don’t know what I’m doing here either, so I can’t judge.She can see through the mirror that the hairdresser is cutting off more hair than she wants, but she says nothing. She knows that she will regret doing this tomorrow morning when her hair is too short to be tied up and funny pieces will refuse to be tamed. The woman looks into the mirror at her face for a look of approval, and she responds with a smile of resignation. Had the woman shaved her bald, she would still have done the same – such is her weariness; she is too tired to object.
A thought occurs to her – like strength was to Samson’s hair, so her girliness is to hers, now floating down her poncho like snowflakes. She estimates, given how short the hairdresser has cut it, that it would start to look decent in March. Maybe April.
But she likes watching the pieces of hair fall down at her feet. It feels... liberating.
posted by me. @ 2:48 PM
1 Comments:
Hey toots, never got to say thanks for the card! (Glad you like the cd). How short is it now? Haha well when we *finally* do brunch then you'll see, won't you?
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