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.