bathroom haircut

just get it off me. i don’t care how. cut it away, and leave it all on the clammy bathroom floor. my wrists ache, and the frostbitten sky starts to pour.

i sweep up chunks of velvet, and take a long, cold shower. i scream into the welling storm. i pull out my phone while i do dishes, and watch sitcoms for hours.

i claw at my skin, like it’s some kind of prison. wear flannels and jeans for weeks on end because i’m tired. and old. and spent. and when you tell me that we won i don’t believe you for a second.

because beneath cheap fluorescent lighting, it all just seems kinda pointless. and sad. i wrapped my heart up in concrete and barbed wire years ago; it’s not personal. i’m just not great at letting people in.

so i fight the ghosts. and the demons all on my own; whatever else you throw my way. i win, i survive, i succeed, no matter what it takes. i press on, and on, until until the bags under my eyes look more like bruises. but in the end… everyone fucking loses. and i am so exhausted. i don’t think you understand that feeling.

like the whole world on your shoulders, and you just walk forward, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding…

***

but in the morning, i will climb out of bed. press my hands to the foggy glass, and look out at the crisp, white snow. and know that it’s over now. not forever, but for today. that the storm has passed. and for a little while, i think the hydra will probably stay away.


I am the queen of sudden, dramatic haircut. I tend to be really sensitive to certain textures, often very suddenly feeling nauseated by certain sounds, textures or tastes, even ones that used to never bother me. And one of those is the feeling of hair touching my neck. I don’t know why it bugs me so much, it never used to, but it’s just how my brain is right now.

When I was in eighth grade, I had this really not flattering chin-length bob situation that I’d had my whole life up until then–but my hair is really wavy, and frizzy, so it would flare out at the bottom and made my face look like a triangle. And it always kinda bugged me, but not enough to change it–and then one day, I just couldn’t stand the feeling of my hair touching my neck. It made me feel really anxious, and gross, and yeah–just not a good time overall. And so I came home, read a wikiHow article, and chopped it off. Which is the story behind why my hair is short now.

I’m too cheap to go to a hairdresser, so I’ve been cutting my own hair since I was eleven or so, and I’ve come to expect that after milestones like my birthday, or just when I’m bored, and fed up of myself, I’ll change my hair a little bit. (But not too much, because honestly, I don’t know shit about cutting hair.) Anyway, recently I gave myself a mental breakdown haircut, and wrote this poem, and I think it turned out pretty cool.

Lots of love,

Lorna

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