It feels like a day,
or a lifetime ago—
depending on how I’m feeling.
I used to drive two hours to you
in my janky jalopy of a car:
no gas gauge, no speedometer,
just a dashboard of question marks.
I never knew how fast I was going,
or if I had enough gas to get there—
but it worked out every time.
Maybe I flew to you
on a half-tank prayer.
We’d go to the drugstore,
you moving through the aisles
with the authority
of a professional stylist,
breaking down the merits
of ten-dollar hair dye boxes—
all of which you or your sister
had tried before.
Back at your place,
I perched on the toilet lid
wrapped in your most stained, holey shirt,
as you whispered—
“Oopsie.”
“Ope, that’s okay.”
“You’ll have a little raccoon spot there.”
I’d feel the plop of bleach or dye
landing where you didn’t plan.
But I didn’t mind.
You’d stretch my hair in your hands,
brush it left, then right,
wipe my face with toilet paper,
help me wash it all out.
I’d emerge blond, or red,
or black, or brown—
one time blue.
But I wasn’t yet
a different woman
until you pulled out the shears.
Snip,
snip,
snip.
No training.
No guidance.
Just your mouth pressed tight,
your eyes locked
on me
in the mirror.
“Does it look even to you?”
And I, unsure—
You’d smile:
“Asymmetrical is in.
So punk rock.”
How I felt cool, later,
repeating that line
to someone else
who said they liked my hair.
And then:
the flat iron,
the hiss of burnt hair,
your sister complaining
from the next room
about the smell.
We’d all drink diet orange soda
and cheap vodka—
your sister too,
despite her valid complaints.
Next day, hungover,
we’d hit the thrift store,
then the record shop.
I’d buy a dress—
tight in the chest—
and a CD
I’d play twice
on the two-hour drive back
to where I lived.
Still unsure how fast I was going,
still guessing if I had enough gas
to make it.
And if I did,
maybe no one would know.
To the neighbors,
a different girl—
a girl you made—
returned to
my shabby apartment,
carrying the mark of you
in every strand.
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