Blindside

Blindside
eleven years old

8 AM, the smarting
Mom, French-braiding my hair
eyes watering from the pain,
each time, I complained.

She dragged me 
to her stylist, no warning
Cut them off, she snapped
Something short, easy care.
He raised an eyebrow,
then snip snip, braids fell—     
I stared at them 
my play friends
on the floor— 
my hands feeling 
for their weight.