Maria trembled in the leather chair,
black smock hot, pulled to her chin like a bed sheet.
I’m sure. Let’s do it, she says, and the metal
saws into her hair. The stylist dangles
a length of yellow strands, places them
into Maria’s hands. The scissors sound
like a pushbroom on concrete, directing water or dust
toward corners, doorways. When it’s done, she stands,
snd surveys the discarded follicles on the floor,
scattered and mystical as tea leaves, ashes.