The Kitchen Chair

I thought I could handle the back

if I just held the hand mirror

at a forty-five-degree angle.

The kitchen scissors were dull,

chewing through the damp strands

instead of slicing them.

When I turned my head, I saw it—

a jagged, cliff-like drop

just above my right ear.

I stood there in the tub later,

watching the black clumps of hair

swirl around the drain

but refusing to go down.