For two months after my friend got dumped, he refused leaving his house. When he emerged, I saw he took clippers to his head and shaved himself to roots. I mentioned how it suited the season, but he denied the weather having any say. Instead, he brushed his fresh cut where locks used to be, and said, “It just felt right.” He explained the process of how easy the inches came off, how months of time could clump on tile.
While I adjust my clippers, I push my hair back for an idea. My cheeks could be tighter to the bone. My chin could be more sharp, show more prominence.
After I wipe the fallout from my brow, it pleases me to see my head doesn’t peak the way I thought. The square of my jaw might even carry the look.
Still, I don’t prefer it, this open line of sight to my eyes.
I tell the mirror that my clothes are dated, that I should work out more.
