Bad – Amy Lauren

Think of your last bad haircut:      scissors’ conclusive clink            on the counter
the girl swivels your seat toward       her mirror.              You cringe just remembering
unwieldy slants                         unflattering highlights at     all the wrong          angles only
patient months reverse.        But she’s chatty, asks about stories          from last visit,
reminds you of a girl you dated,         you don’t have the heart to tell her. What’s done
is done.                       She’s trained at a top school.            For hair, or                    something
you don’t quite remember.                   What matters is             tomorrow’s your first day
at this new school                 with this damn cut                                         you can already hear
laughter.                Your mother’s eyes soften,                       she says it’s very handsome.
It’s not really about hair     the first girl who kissed you                  couldn’t stop
pushing back          thick bangs           “see how much better you look            with hair up
framing your eyes                                                        like this?”         but you wanted to hide
a sharp pug nose,           chubby cheeks.             Your body became less         about you
the second girl combing        back, tugging                       too hard       you don’t have
the heart       to tell her                              so you straighten                                      your face
when you want to squirm.        She conceals her face with tools,        lipstick, powder
contour, mascara,      glittering                                 promises                                    and you
want to chisel yourself                           out of stone                                with her tools.
now, your grip                          on yourself                               loosed by this
cut                               to the nape                               enclosing
 .               your face                   pressing in                                                     till you surrender
mother loves it                                           mirrors remind you                       of each moment
.                                      you wanted                                                       to protest