The salon's 'open' sign blinked then didn't

The salon's 'open' sign blinked, then didn't,

just a dead red rectangle in the dusk.

My face in the glass, a smear of me,

and suddenly, I felt it.

That line.

Not a real line, but the memory

of where it used to be,

that hard edge across my brow

like a bad joke. Like someone took a ruler

and just went for it.

It curled under, back then.

Didn't sweep. Didn't move.

Just sat there, a helmet fringe

heavy and wrong.

I wanted to hide inside it.

Even now, seeing my distorted self

in that dark pane,

my fingers lift.

They want to smooth it back.

But there's nothing there to smooth.

Just the ghost of a blunt cut.