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.
Gosh that feels so harsh
Oh yes, it was!
Whoa. xo
Yeah. Definitely a whoa!