last glass...dusty buckets...parched e-lips...sponge...drip...drop

2003-02-17 - 2:50 p.m.: shampoo

writing is like, it's like
(you know)
rubbing up
against a fine-tooth-comb
to force bedraggled threads of thought
to hang
in stylish lines
but when we go out
we brush them back
away from our startled eyes
with fingers
and wind
and electric-hellos
and our patterns
get tangled
in whys

i'm getting my hair cut today. YES. MORE THAN ONE OF THEM. the thing i'm dreading is that part where (s)he asks me, "what are you looking for, today?"


i never know what to say. NO, i don't want to look like the hottest new thing to hit the silver screen. no THANK you. i don't use "styling products"... i part my hair on a different side every day and it shines or screams or does flips on the ends because it WANTS to, not because i speak softly to it in french while repeat-lathering. oh, and by the way: unless there have been reports of rocks randomly dropping from the sky today, DON'T SPRAY THAT SHIT ON MY HEAD.

"i just want the feeling of having my hair cut, actually. i don't care what you do."

"oh... ok."

and (s)he starts clipping. ahhhhhh..... kill me. dim the lights and i'd drool.

i usually walk out looking pretty much the same, but with a weedy scent and woozy senses. there's something hypnotizing about scissors that close to your head combined with forced-stillness and gentle scalp-tugging. it disintegrates me, particle by particle. i would get my hair cut every day if i had enough of it. i would get cross-eyed and stupid.

p.s. no, the smell of my shampoo does not bring me to orgasm. but tell me if yours does. i'm curious.