Jordan Taylor
Shear I kneel in front of his bathroom sink, knees ground into the gritty beige tile, arms folded in front of me and stuck to the wet ceramic. My head is bowed over the white bowl, pink neck bare, so that he can run his long fingers and the jagged blunt razor through my thick hair. His warm legs press against my back, blue jeans scratching my shoulder blades, no sound but his breathing, loud in our cramped space, and the snick snick tug of the razor, and the whisper of the dull brown strands drifting into the sink. An hour ago this silence had been awkward, but I know when I raise my head to look in the mirror, bright pale face with only the shortest new halo of brown, I will not be the only thing that has transformed.