Sherry’s haircutWe’re in my kitchen at 9 o’clock on a Monday night.
She’s brought a photo, some Parisian beauty with a high bob.
“I want to look like her,” Sherry says, but it’s not
really the hair she’s after. It’s not even the wardrobe,
the casual sling of her dress, high boots flirting with her knees.
Sherry puts a hand on her hip, just like the woman in the picture,
pinches her lips a few degrees.
And there, I see it. She wants release, freedom, a cure
to wipe out loss and fear. Some way to keep her grip from slipping.
There’s no haircut big enough for this, but I get my scissors, and start snipping.