I cut my hair the other day

It has hung there for months like a horse's tail, or pony's tail,
swinging from side to side and I whinnied down the footpath.
After my hair was cut, and I fingered the bristles at the back
of my neck, I stood in front of the mirror for a little while,
wanting to hack at salon layers with a pair of blunt scissors.
After I dyed it, I wanted to dye it again, so it would be
the deepest red possible and I could watch the
water trickle bloodlike down the drain. I wanted to chew at
the strands until there was nothing left, and then
shear the rest off, just to prove that I could and
that I didn't care if I was ugly. As the stubble grew back,
I'd make shapes out of it, like hedge sculptures
resting flat on the surface of my scalp.
Then maybe I'd get some tattoos, peirce my
chin, smoke crack, hook up with the lead
singer of a heavy metal band and find
myself. Sometimes if you stare in the mirror
long enough, your face doesn't look like
your face anymore; a glue of skin congealed
over the shape of a bone. Like the way a word
stops making sense if you think about it too
much, a strange cluster of letters forced to
march in a line, I thought the hair would
work; the math made sense. the angle of
the cut met the cut of my jaw in a
Pythagoras of bedhead redhead glamour
puss. Math was never my best subject,
though. It's easier to stand in front of the
mirror, watching my face drift into
continents.
- Year of the shorts.

I reccommend a sweet little store called Sticky underground flinders station.
They have an amazing collection of zines.