haircut

252 words about a haircut

I go there with a thought and a few screenshots on my phone. I make The Small Talk and apologize for dark roots and dry ends. I do not look in the mirror for too long. Gazing at her or my phone. Occasionally my eyes wander to the reflection of my chin and I examine the red bumps. I grimace, turn away, take off my glasses.

I show her my screen, “I know the haircut won’t give me her face”. I grimace again. She paints my hair white, too white. Too many chemicals. I suck air in and out of my mouth but still taste them on my tongue. Hot and metallic. No, no holidays booked. 

She pushes the tips of her digits into my skull. I wince. The water is hot. Droplets seep down my neck - wet and soapy. No, no plans for Christmas. The snipping begins. What has protected me falls to the floor. Maybe this is a bit too short. I bite my tongue. Nothing I can do now. You’ll always be a blonde. They do have more fun, she asks me to uncross my legs again. Keratin confetti. I shake my head and hear water churn in my ears. 

It’s hot but smells nice. Pulling and dragging, the dark wig turns yellow. Streaks of white, beige and cream now frame my round face. I smile and my face broadens, pushing hair off of it. I shake my head again. Thank you, how much do I owe you.