Shorn Into Sheepdom
I liked it better before.
Before she took her scissors to me and “cut into the curl.”
I liked the way my hair hung down around my face
like a hippie’s from the Sixties.
I felt better that way.
Safer,
cloistered,
by the dark brown curtain
no one had opened in years.
Now I look just like everyone else.
Happy.
Bouncy.
A poster child for mousse and gel.
A walking wave of hair.
Mindless as the other people
who come in and out of that salon
day after day.
It’s my own fault.
I should have stopped when I was ahead.
But I didn’t.
My birthday is coming so I decided to splurge.
I wanted to make myself feel special.
The truth is, I was already special.
Now, I am someone else’s definition of that word.
I keep looking in the mirror,
trying to find myself,
but I’m not there.
This person in front of me
isn’t me,
nor do I want her to be.
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