August 8, 2016
A haircut is felt with many emotions.
Equating if a a side bob or a simple trim would suffice.
Snip, snip, snip a stylist uses all tools that they come equipped with.
A transitional time that we usually choose for ourselves.
What if someone else is pulling the strings?
Who sings a melody of masterful control.
A demon who longs for your soul.
You lose grip as each snip is forced by their hand.
Why did I give up control?
How come I didn’t tell him to stop?
Even though the one side was crooked.
Even if it was short at the sides.
And longer in the back.
Why didn’t I tell you to stop.
In a pile of hair on the floor, a drop of blood got in the mix.
All because you thought my hair was too long.
That I didn’t look masculine enough for you.
That I wasn’t tough enough for you to find me desirable.
The only thing missing from that lump of hair and blood, were tears.
I’m glad that our “love” didn’t last years.
Our relationship was a one way ownership.
But. You. Didn’t. Own. Me.
You will never hurt me again.
You will never make me feel powerless again.
You will never cut my hair again.
My heart was no match for your multi-faced approach.
But I’m thankful that my feet were strong enough to walk away.
Don’t allow anyone to take away your power.