Poetry by Sam

Haircut

I knew I was right to buy the clippers-

you were unsure

at first,

nervous you’d make mistake.

Now look at you

move around my seat

in our bathroom mirror-

crouched- peering-

like a chemist with a test tube

while the buzzers buzz the electronic roar that sounds bored rather than angry-

the teeth run across my scalp

and give me goosebumps.

Every time you apologise too much, and say

it’s hard because it’s thick, like cutting grass,

but you scythe big, broad strips away- more

combine harvester through corn. You’re getting good!

Eyes closed, temple pressed-

directed by your fingers-

I bend my neck

while scissors slip behind my ears

and crunch

against tough clumps-

unkempt strands of keratin snap

and drop softly and fall on my bare, pale chest

and freckled shoulders-

till I looked scored by countless little lacerations,

or made of cracking porcelain.

But you clap away the building bundles,

and afterwards you’ll brush it off my body

and ask me if I think it looks OK-

I already know it will.