Shorter Than I Asked

The woman asked if it was short enough,

and I said yes, because I didn't know

how to say that the answer was no,

that it was too short, that I felt

like someone had made a decision

about my body without consulting me.

Which she had, obviously. I'd been sitting

there with her hands in my hair

for an hour, but somewhere between

the consultation and the cutting,

something changed. Some intention shifted.

What I ended up with wasn't what I asked for.

I paid her anyway. Left the tip.

Smiled like she hadn't just taken

something from me that I can't get back

until it grows, which takes months,

which means I have to live inside

this feeling of wrongness, this sense

that I'm unrecognizable, that I'm

walking around in a body that doesn't

feel like mine anymore.

At home, I stood in front of the mirror

and tried different angles, different light,

tried to convince myself that it looked

intentional, that I had wanted this.

But the truth is I just look smaller,

less myself, like someone took scissors

to more than just my hair.