Quarantine Haircut
I’ve had hundreds of haircuts over the years
but never one as intimate as the one Julie
gave me yesterday, mid-quarantine, and my
hair standing up and out of control and when
she could take it no more she said sit down,
Bozo. I happily complied, always eager for
her touch. She stood over me cutting, clipping,
and buzzing and I could feel her legs on mine,
her forearm brushing my ears. But it wasn’t
the physical touch as much as the proximity,
breathing the same air like we used to do back
when the sight of each other would result in
clothes flying through the air, naked bodies
moving together in rhythm, but this was a haircut,
scissors, a misused beard trimmer, a memory of
what was once there. When she asked why I was
crying, I said Some hair must have irritated my eyes,
and she didn’t press, only wiped it away, said
you’re a fool and she was right once again.
— Steve Cushman
