Haircut day

Something tells me I ought to have written a poem today …

Just before 7:00 am, the sky was pink – the colour of cherry blossoms. Soon the colour faded, and the pale sky was suddenly a sculpture gallery showing smoke-white clouds in fantasy formations.

Haircut day! And I was anxious about it.

You want the truth?

Today I broke up with my stylist.
After ten years.
“This is the last time you’ll be cutting my hair,”
I mumbled. My cheeks were on fire.
“I’ve been poached,” I told him, 
beating around the bush a bit.
“A good deal on the price,” I muttered.
“The apprentice,” I added.
“They’ve promised me a good haircut,
but it’ll take an hour.” 

He was hurt, defensive. The rest doesn’t matter.

But (without mentioning it) he did knock twenty bucks off the price.

You want the truth, don’t you?

The real point – the real reason I sat in a public loo afterwards
and cried – I was concerned about what he would think of me now.
I didn’t want him to stop liking me.

“First bad haircut, you’ll be back, I know you will,” he told me.

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