Unsaid

It was the 23rd summer of her life and all she could think was — where have the other 22 gone to? Her hair was too long and begging for the attentions of a good pair of scissors, almost unable to remember when was the last time the strands felt the steel cutting through the mass of brown. And she was telling herself that she had an appointment schedule this week (or was it the next?), but for now it’ll have to rest tied in a ball of hair held together by two bands and one hair clip. It was the summer, after all.