Snip snip snip.
The smell of hair cream, of shampoo overwhelms her,
making her dizzy.
She just wants it to be over so she can have her lollipop.
That restless girl
tries to drown out the sound of scissors clashing away
by instead listening to elderly women conversing
over in the corner.

Snip snip snip.
It seems those cold scissors
Have been trimming off her perfect red locks for hours.
She hears impatient customers
flicking pages of glossy magazines,
and wonders
if there is anything left on her head.
Hair is still falling to the ground,
while the small child’s eyes are covered by tiny hands
painted with pink nail polish.

Snip snip snip.
The rhythmic sound of scissors scraping
as they slice easily into the auburn hair of a little girl,
an inch from her left ear.
Glistening curls fall to the dusty, tiled floor.
She hates this first bit of uncertainty
injected into her carefree life.
The young girl’s eyes remain shut tight,
afraid she will not recognize herself when she looks in the mirror.

Snip snip snip.
Her memories now lay on the floor, mixed with the gentle ginger curls.
That crinkly smock is pulled away from her small shoulders.
She searches her brain for the life story now scattered around her,
just as she would stick her hand into a cookie jar,
hoping desperately for a treat,
and found to her surprise that it was not empty.
The memories were not forgotten,
though they were no longer hanging from her head in shining strands.