cutting my own hair on a sunday afternoon i flick the clippers on & they shutter-- jittering the bones of my hand-- this shivering femur this quivering species-- as if they were a small mammal designed to browse our skulls & eat the hair off of them. it's strange to be holding clippers myself after all the times someone else has guided them over my head. i'm back maybe six years ago standing at the oval mirror on my uncle's side of the house he's saying "look down" & "tilt your head this way." the buzzing combines with the sound of horse hooves clopping up our street toward the meeting house. must have been a sunday. today is also a sunday but i keep forgetting it is. i mouth to myself in the mirror it is sunday. i have no calendars pinned to the back of a door-- i have no wrist or watch & no one else is home to ask if it really is sunday. it is sunday. there's something original about dark brown hair falling into a white sink-- like it might have been an action god performed on us & we all forgot. i pause between swipes of clipping to rub the clumps of hair between my fingers. it's thick & seems like the hair of a woodland animal. i picture a raccoon curled around my head. i look in the mirror & i've only cut three patches-- each distinct little territories. i touch kiwi fruit skin or maybe the fresh cut lawn when the grass was all yellow & dry in july. short-- a familiar texture. i have been shaving the sides of my head down this short for years but it always feels loud like this when its fresh cut. i have a few beats where i wonder if i can actually shave the rest. i want to ask someone to help, not because i can't do it but maybe because i don't want to alone. i don't consider this hugely symbolic, i'm always a lonely person whether there are people at home or not. no one else even knows i'm doing this. the impulse to cut my hair is unpredictable, but immediate & demanding. still, i can't cut more while i'm thinking about what it feels like to have someone put their hands on your skull & guide a blade across.