On Giving in to Impulses

To save money last month, I cut my own hair -
watched some You-Tube vids to learn how.
"Hmmm. Not bad."

Well, a bit crooked here & there, but
only if you're really Looking.
So I splurged the other day to go
get it straightened out.

Lost in translation I signaled to the cutter:
No more than an inch,  please, & point the angle
like the model in the poster on the wall.
I shut my eyes, relaxed.

I should have been more specific.
She repeated "angle" but heard "Cut like in the poster on the wall" - as in
exactly.  As in not just the angle point but the entire haircut style,
clip for clip.

I reach for the hair at the back of my neck,
it's gone. ( Let's not talk about the sides.)
What is this new style? Half Angela Merkel, half
early Beatles.  The cutter is pleased.
I am stunned to silence.
I say Merci, pay, grab my coat and slink home, my
tuque pulled down over my ears as
far as it will go.

"Change is good," I tell my mate, unconvinced.
"It'll grow back," he smiles.

I don't recognize the person in the mirror
who stares back at me, a stranger.
We're slowly adjusting,
one comb pass at a time.