10 years old at the hair salon

a book of boy faces sings a song 
about fingers & teeth. smiling 
boy faces. stubbled boy faces.
posing boys with their grey backgrounds
& their blue eyes. their hair cuts 
are made of stair cases. outside the frame
the boys are all at beautiful locations 
like the side of a cliff or the ocean.
i am on my knees. in another book 
there are girl heads. everyone 
tilts their faces to the side. every book
is worn around the edges. is yellowing paper.
dad is here, bouncing his knee like he's 
a father machine. 
the clippers hum like they want to sing
but can't. my thighs brush up against each other 
like scissers' bladeds meeting.
i am trying to choose a head to be my own.
my own hair is too long. it bleeds 
down my back. the edges are frizzy.
each morning, mom tries to pull a comb
through my mess. i have dreams of bats
getting tangled in my hair. mom says
it's too messy to donate anywhere
not to hurt me just to be honest. 
i imagine being one of the models 
in the books. practicing a distant smile,
i stare off into the distance. i feel a camera 
hovering just out of sight. so many heads.
all across the page. all those bodies out of frame.
boy bodies with their coarse fingers &
their playground laughing. man bodies 
that always resemble my father.
families of people with great haircuts.
all the boy faces visit me like ghosts.
they tell me what i already know
which is that i want my hair so short
no one will recognize me. some of the faces
don't smile. some of them just 
press their lips together as if they're closing 
an entrance. the hair dresser makes small talk.
the pages of a magazine are being flipped. 
dad is looking around. i wonder if he's
counting the ceiling lights 
like i do. he could be a head 
in a book. i want to pose him.
take the picture 
on a stone-color background.