What Sticks Out

I did it myself.

Three weeks of looking at it

and finally I just grabbed the scissors

from the junk drawer

and stood there at midnight

in front of the bathroom mirror,

hair still damp from the shower,

and I cut.

Not careful. Not measured.

Just angry cuts.

Just trying to make it look like less of a failure

by taking away the evidence.

It was uneven by the time I was done.

One side shorter than the other,

the back a disaster,

but I told myself it was intentional,

it was a style,

it was something I meant to do.

The next morning on the bus

someone's arm came up—

they were reaching for the handle above my head—

and their hand brushed my hair,

my awful, crooked hair,

and I felt completely visible.

Like I'd been caught.

Like the scissors and the anger and the midnight stupidity

were written in the uneven lengths.

I moved away.

Pulled my jacket collar up even though it was warm.

Tried to make myself smaller.

But the thing about a bad haircut is that it doesn't go anywhere.

You have to live in it

until it grows out.

You have to let people see it.

You have to let them know

that you made a choice that didn't work.

That you're the kind of person who cuts their own hair badly

at midnight

and then regrets it.