You only get this haircut
from the barber who sleeps with you. It’s the endless attention to your ears
and eyebrows. It’s the wrestling moves. I wield shears, talk brusquely with my hands,
cut off your curls with your head braced between my breasts as you sit almost
calmly. Your bald spot is the view from a glass-bottom boat. No sign of me
down there. Once on a beach vacation you and I watched a wife with scissors
move across her husband’s scalpin a sarong. It ought to have been private
the way she shaved his neck and sideburns.If
