The clippers buzz to life.
A first pass from nape to crown,
Six inches of blond hair fall to the ground.
The stylist orbits around my head,
A moon to my earth,
Her breastbone near my face
As she shaves off the remaining pieces.
Don’t panic; it’ll grow back.
Momentarily, I want glue or tape.
(But I don’t know the German)
I look in the mirror all glory and nakedness.
Just a spare lock to keep,
A reminder of my badassery.