Haircut

The writer is fascinated about the hair of his mistress. Black, silky, long, plausibly perfumed. He doesn’t recognize the brand of the perfume. Maybe she doesn’t use perfume in the first place and the scent is something natural. Something natural, something exotic. She lies beside him, spreading her hair wildly on the bed sheet. Black and white, the sharpest contrast. So sharp that it pierces the eyes a little bit. Her hair is like a black cataract, a black silk cataract. “Can I keep a lock of your hair? In memory of the beautiful days we had.” He knows she’s a keeper but deep inside his heart he knows he and her, it won’t last forever. There is nothing either black or white. Most often gray takes over. The moral gray zone. The relationship gray zone. The gray heavy sky pressing on the street strollers. So gray, so heavy that they cannot breathe. Gray is unbearable. Maybe that’s why the writer is fascinated about the black hair. The black hair won’t stay black forever. Flowers will wither and wrinkles will appear on her flawless skin. The writer wants to cut a lock of his mistress’ hair. When it’s still black. Cut it, do cut it when it’s still black. She won’t be young and beautiful forever.