She twisted hair around her brush

And held the dryer high.

Heat that burned my scalp

And my tortured face.

Colour rose up to my cheeks

As she stared back through the mirror,

Knowing truth I’d never told before.

Why do we tell the girl

In the salon, only eighteen years of age

So many secrets that we hold

Tightly in our palms?

The roughness of the brush through knots,

It matches just how tough he was

With me when he left for work today.

I gently touch the purple skin

That bloomed like viscous roses.

Maybe I should not have told

But hairdressers always seem to have that way.