A POEM for the next woman I’ll fall in love with, Mena Brazinski

Because it being inevitable doesn’t mean I won’t be picky. For instance, it can’t be a hairdresser. I couldn’t stand to be reminded of you mid-breakdown, poised with the scissors in the bathroom after I’ve neglected myself for far too long. (I grew since it ended, but not in any way that flattered me.) Can’t bear to think of how you’d do a much better job than me, chiding me gently for my forgetfulness. I’d remember you then, in the mirror, how you gently tugged at the roots of my virgin hair as we laid on your couch together (we were at your place that night), begging me to let you dye it. The color sticks better that way, you’d told me. It stays longer when nothing else has ever touched it. I’d refused, you complained, I put my foot down, you conceded. (This was how all of our arguments went.) You, never one to poke or pry, had surrendered. But not before reminding me of all the new people I could become if I let you change up my look. We could go blonde maybe, or darker brown, a touch of red. Here you fluffed up my hair, running your fingers through it. Add in some warm undertones or highlights. No, I’d said firmly, like you were being silly and I was older and wiser and sadder and knew more than you because of it, I wouldn’t look like me. And then you said Well, what’s wrong with that? And I went silent. You moved on, settling for a trim instead. Set me up with a chair in the bathroom, got the hot towel ready for my neck. I loved the attention, loved the care and purpose with which you touched me. Your understanding, your light hand with the scissors. When it was over, you let me look up. No big reveal. Just me, but a bit cleaner and neater. You packed up your things six months later, putting your styling tools into a brown box labeled haircare in your even handwriting. There was no house key to return to me. As I watched you leave, my hair the same color it was when we met, I remember thinking I wish I had loved you enough to let you touch me. I wish I had loved you enough to let you turn me into something unrecognizable. I wish I had loved you enough to let you change me in some substantial way.