coiffor

i would neither speak,nor touch,but watch.
i'd rather see rain poorring outside the window.
i would cut your hair as if i were michelangelo. i would fear misshaping the undercover curls. i would not whisper,but i would sigh,for shaky,loving hands cannot deal with precision. i would pretend i'm trying to get an angle,faking thoughtful grimmaces which you would unwillingly print beyond your forehead. you'd get scared of the scissors cutting your ear,or getting into your green left eye. it's tricky not to be the one carrying the scissors.
it might be just an instant. it might resume the whole circumstance,heartbeats,speed of thoughts passing both streams,yours and mine. i like you better on the chair rolling eyes and trusting my very cold hands.
i would be the taller one while giving you the haircut. and i would wink as i am done with it,passing you the mirror,waiting for your approval smile.
you'd get stuck with me until your hair grows back and some other hands,holding some other scissors would give you a brand new haircut.