Salons closed and no-one watching
I take scissors into my own hands.
Plenty to go at, and knowing less is often more,
I clip and chop, trim and snip,
extemporise with rash abandon
as frizz hits the cutting room floor.
What I’m left with suits;
ragged bits and stray spikes,
slant lines and wayward asymmetric flicks.
More me than the precision sculpt I’ve had for years,
this is what I’ve always wanted
but was afraid to ask for fearing raised eyebrows,
insinuations of mutton dressed as lamb
from the one who wielded power.
Now, no witnesses, I study my reflection;
less Narcissism, more admiration for my own creation
already looking forward to it growing out,
for another blank canvas to work on.