A Haircut

Grey uniform,

Speaking gibberish.

I do not understand a word of what he says.

I do not register any of it.

A lock of hair on my shoulder.

Don't move, he says,

It will be over in a few minutes.

I wait.

The scissors

Test my patience,

Witness my tears,

Drink my penitence,

Eat my fears.

I used to be terribly afraid of this place,

The fake horses and elephants,

The smells of cream and pain,

The locks of patience and death.

In a few minutes,

I shall walk past an old lake,

A loved restaurant.

Summer is here.

I am still here.

The writer is an A Level student.