I was afraid of haircuts.
I was certain that a single drop of blood
Would drip from each strand of hair
And that my scalp would be matted with
A thick coagulation of gore.
It would drip down my forehead
Until the barber wiped my brow.
I learned these thoughts were foolish
Though I still grow anxious
When my hair is long
Because I will be forced
To smile and make small talk
With someone I don't know
And don't want to know.
Go ahead,
Wrap my neck with a harsh white strip of tissue and
Snap a smock too tight.
Attack me with razor, scissors, and comb,
But please do not converse with me.
Let me gaze at my reflection and
Listen to others in the room.
Don't force me to reflect on the weather
Or what I do for a living
Or weekend activities.
Leave me alone to disappear
In a world where
Blood is preferable to human interaction.

© Poem Fix 2012
Photo: U.S. National Archives and Records Administration

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