The Haircut from Hell

She didn’t speak English.
It was a bad sign.
I already had the nylon bib
wrapped around my neck,
tightly.
She sprayed water on my hair,
pulling her comb evenly through the
knots and tangles.
I could see
my hair stretching, feel my
scalp pulling and see my
hair snapping like curling
ribbon for decorating packages.
She did not see the
pain on my face and
she did not speak
English.
She started cutting,
staring over my head
at her newly colored hair
in the mirror.
I didn’t want to look
as my hair littered the
floor.
It was meant to be.
Fate.
She didn’t speak English,
I still have some hair left,
my split ends are gone,
my hair eventually will
grow back.
Requirement for next
hair stylist:
She must speak English.

.

Photograph courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/spine/283364346/