NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty Four

Sonnet 8

I cut my hair to keep me moving fast.
Ten weeks of growth can keep you on a trudge.
The fingers that ran through it three months past
feel like they tug, as if to hold a grudge.
Though plain enough to use a barber's knife,
you still prefer the baptism by sink.
Salon hands take ten weeks of your life,
assistants taking care of work-napped links.
The cut begins, the locks all taking flight
followed by the rare delight of loss.
Something happens to your hair at night.
Your griefs show upon your head his dross,
hundres of stranded Marie Antoinettes,
cut for your sins, just waiting to be swept.