I grab the scissors with both hands,
and hold the blade between my fingertips
to see if the blood will make
my hair a deeper shade of red.
I have styling gel in my eye
and it’s turning my corneas to fire,
but I’ll simply wait to see
if it’ll make my irises turn grey.
I wish haircuts were plastic surgeries,
so my former self could be
swept away with the tiny piles
of scraps upon the floor.
Maybe I’ll go blonde.