i used to cut your hair

i watch your shirt as it passes over your head, your shoulders flexing slightly as the hem covers your eyes. just a trim, you say, and we laugh as you hand me the buzzer. i trust you, you say without words. i trust you. don’t cut me.

my hands smooth over your scalp, settling behind your ears softly, fingering the curls just barely beginning to grow at the edge of your neck. reflexively you lean into the touch and rock to the side like a cat, letting your weight settle into the chair and toward me. i see every hair on your head stand up and then relax. i trust you.

the hair falls to the floor slowly, floating almost, in thick slices that blow absently across the tiles when i shuffle my feet. i shave in careful lines over the crown of your head, angling the blades with familiar precision as i pass the back of your skull. i know the shape well. i could close my eyes. i don’t. i savor the sight of you.

i trace over the space behind your ears. you always hold your breath as i do this. i trust you, i feel you say. i trust you.

i brush the hair off your neck. i kiss you. i kiss you.