Cropped Frame

The reflection caught me, just then,

in the plate glass of the dry cleaner.

A shadow of a girl with a terrible fringe,

cut too high, too blunt, too meaner

than any actual feeling.

It was supposed to be stylish, sharp.

Instead, it was a crooked line,

a mistake, a sour harp

note on my forehead.

I remember the scissors, cold steel,

the hairdresser's confident snip,

and the slow, sinking real

panic when I saw it.

Like a hedge that got hacked,

just sat there, refusing to grow out,

all uneven, all stacked.