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Haircut.

I don’t remember
how old I was…

or the name
of the shop.

I just remember
climbing stairs
and sitting in
a chair in front
of a mirror.

And then 
I remember
her.

The knitted
jumper with
a large neck,
rolled over,
hair pulled
neatly
back and
tied.

Scissors
clicking over
my head.

She moved
my head,
pushed and
pulled.

I was
reluctant
to let my
head move
at first and
my neck
ached as
my muscles
fought for
control.

But it was
hopeless.

I let my
head go
back when
she pulled
it to comb
some hair
up and
snip the
ends.

I felt her
breasts brush
against my
neck, ears and
the right side of
my face.

So soft I
wanted to
lay my head
on them
and sleep.

I wanted her
breasts to
touch my face.
I didn’t know
what I was
feeling
I only knew
it felt good.

I felt safe
and warm.

I’ve never
felt that
way since.

It seems
I’ll never
feel that
way again.

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