Eyes closed to keep out all
but the feel of fingers stroking, lifting,
assuming their brief intimacy with my scalp,
contracting like skin on a cat’s back,
luxuriating in the uncommon.
Crisp scissors flash and dart, withdraw to contemplate their work;
the silken hiss of blades perfectly met
touches a rare place inside my brain
that perceives the sound exquisite,
a tiny aural climax.
If my hair grew faster, I would come more often
to offer my head to the hands of another
or I could just pay for another hour, asking to pretend,
prolonging the pleasure,
as good as the prelude to sex.