Why Haircuts are Sometimes Essential

Lying with my back pressed closely against him, he blows a strand of hair off my neck and with a finger sweeps my long hair over my shoulder. "What are you thinking?" he asks. I don't respond. My eyes shut tightly, hoping he'll think I've fallen asleep. He drapes his arm over me and kisses the back of my neck.

That was many years ago. It is a wonder to me still, the question: What are you thinking?

Another time, away from the feeling of my arched back against a certain frame, another formless shapeless man would say it differently: Why can't you let me know what you're thinking? Tenderness absent, he stares me down. I bite my lip, crying, and twist the knotted ends of my hair between my fingers. I look at him and do not respond.

I've since cut my hair short.