She screams when I tug
at the brush tangled in her hair
tears fill her eyes
her shoulders hunch
trying to withstand the pain
I try to figure out the network
of hairs woven into the black bristle,
knowing the pink plastic handle
will snap if I pull too hard.
I bring out a chair
to get closer to her head
and one by one release the
strands making jokes to take
her focus off the hurt.
How did it get so out of control?
When it becomes too difficult we decide
the shears will be an easier solution
and with three quick chops her head is free
but who is this woman,
she doesn't recognize me?
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