She sat on the chair,
Half inclined to turn and run
The white reflected in the mirror
Her tresses golden and amber.
She felt a moment of hesitation
Should she, or shouldn't she?
The final word given,
She waited for the cold blade.
Snip, snip, snip went the scissors
The tresses fell all around.
Long, brown shiny with a tint of gold,
She closed her eyes cold.
She opened and stared
Shocked-a stranger in the mirror?
Faint memory of a writer's childhood fear Shingled hair-sign of cowardice?
She dreaded going out,
A familiar face staring?
Mocking or shocked?
She wondered.
She reached home,
Mom welcomed her with a smile,
She burst out with tears of regret,
Mother smiled and said,
It will grow, my love!
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