The horse’s haircut
A ghostly grey horse leaned impatiently forward in a wide, stiff, black barber's chair.
Her younger stepsister hummed as she cut her shiny, knee-length mane.
The horse stared out the window and let her eyes follow the raindrops dripping down the glass.
She froze her eyes on one cloud, focusing on its darker colour.
Her stepsister trimmed a little more in between sips of milky coffee and awkwardly adjusting her size-too-small woolly cardigan.
The horse wondered how much time she would take.
With a small chop, the stepsister oohed. “You have such healthy, thick hair.”
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“Thank you, but I want it all gone,” replied the horse, shaking her hoof and chewing gum to the rhythm of the scissors.
Lock by lock swayed slowly to the grey-tiled ground like a dying bird.
A little mountain of grey grew taller from the dusty floor. The horse gazed down,
straining her neck. She watched the final lock top off the mountain like a silver flag,
and then roll down to the floor.
“What do you—”
“I think it might be too short,” the horse shakingly interrupted with her eyes slightly squinted.
“But that is what you want—” the stepsister stated.
“That is what I want-ed,” corrected the horse.
“In time it will grow,” the stepsister laughed with her mouth full of melting sugar cubes. The horse kicked over the pile of hair, knowing that she didn’t have enough time.
At least for it to ever be the same.
As the stepsister swept the mountain of hair into a plastic bag,
the horse distractingly,
and in a rush, shoved sugar cubes into her mouth.
She was late for…