On the bus a girl with hair so stark

On the bus, a girl with hair so stark,

a fringe cut blunt, leaving its mark.

Above her brow, a straight, sad line,

a childish crime, somehow divine

in its sheer awfulness. I felt a sting,

remembering that awkward thing.

Twelve years old, in kitchen light,

my mother's shears, a terrible sight.

"Just a trim," she'd always say,

but then the bangs were hacked away.

Too short, too thick, a heavy hood,

no matter how much I understood

she meant well, it was a fright.

I wanted to just disappear from sight.

That kid, she sat there, proud, or blind.

That blunt cut, truly one of a kind.

I wanted to warn her, tell her, 'run!'

But childhood shame is never done,

it just waits, for a sudden glance,

to make you wince, and take a stance

against the mirror, one more time,

a ghost of that old, silly crime.