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Marcia is a maniac
with the scissors,
doesn't cut my hair
but bush-whacks,
clears the underbrush,
displaced Amazonas
on my morena head.
Her steely gaze
in the mirror challenges
the back of my neck.
"Tem cabellos densos,"
she admonishes sternly
as she paces around me,
brown eyes darting spit-
spot, Mary Poppins
gone south of the border.
I feel five kilos lighter
but fear no hair is left
til her hairdryer purrs—
with kinder, gentler pulls
she reveals my hair
still has its body,
but has been tamed
the first time in 31 years.
She told it where to go
and cleared the way.
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