First time I had my head shaved in a hair salon, accompanied by the stern faced barber, and my hard father, I knew that this saloon is not for me, these people are not for me, this world is not for me.
Most distressful hours of my childhood were the ones spent in schools and hair salons, places I’d to frequent to for gentrification. And what gentleman have theses places have curved out of this little me… One bleed my scalp, other bleed my childhood. A barber’s blade never sees the small pimple buried in a child’s hair, and nor it has to. It’s purpose is to slash everything that falls on its way- be it at the cost of my head’s bleeding, or my chest’s silent screaming.
I don’t remember how much of my blood the blade has drunk that day, but I knew the pimple will not grow there again. it’ll find another safer site to grow, to save my little reservoir of blood. I don’t remember where the pimple has grown, I don’t know which salon or school I now frequent to. But i know the child still bleeds.
And one day I got my own hair clipper. It was made of lifeless object, in which I found my childhood’s belated liberation…
Now I’ve very little hair to care about, little time to pity the bleeding child, and little space in my closet to bury the corpse of the Chinese hair clipper.
But I must free more and more space-
to let the liberation set its pace,
to finish my childhood’s unfinished race