My Sister Cuts My Hair

by Lucy Adkins

I sit in the chair and she smiles,
puts her hands in my hair. What
are we doing, she asks, and I say
a little off the ends. The color
she takes for granted, knowing me,
knowing how I am not ready
yet to relent. She ties the drape
at my back and begins
the comb out. Already she has
worked ten hours this day:
applying setting solution, color,
holding her scissors close
to her fingers. She cuts herself
sometimes. Working too fast, she says,
momentary lapses, and her hands
are raw with hot water,
chemicals, the occasional slice
of a razor. While the color sets,
she rests awhile, pours herself
a drink. I wish she wouldn’t.
Not so much. She stretches her hands
which have tended me for thirty years.
When she was five, she and my other
sister fought, and she packed a
pasteboard suitcase and took off
down the road. I got in my Plymouth
and brought her back. We still
talk about that sometimes.