Writers as Kids: [Some haircuts]

Writing by Evelyn Hampton

Pictured: Erin Teegarden

Some haircuts are red rooms. You walk around them feeling heavy in your blood. You are in love and you are nobody. Nobody could love you because nobody knows you. Not even the red room knows that you are you. You lie down in the red room and the red room does nothing to have you.

Some haircuts are wolverine kits. They wake up next to you blinking. There are pine needles in them and places where you could sit by a fire. You know that one day they will be too terrible to sleep next to, but for now they are just the soft parts of the forest.

Some haircuts are animations. They ride on motorcycles and get run over. Even smashed on the road they lie like someone has painstakingly drawn them on a computer.

Some haircuts cling to hulls and rocks and bulwarks. They are curl-footed and sessile feeders. With their one eye they live within a calcareous shell and have no true heart.

Some haircuts are just haircuts. They shuffle around in the wind. Their hairs break off one by one, becoming lost in the city.

Some haircuts are a madness, a green scream. They shout, Euphoria and corpses!

Some haircuts are making money. Each has a brain that's racing. The brain's thoughts are like circuits being stamped by a machine. Each hair is connected to a circuit. Inside the brain the hairs are terribly tangled.

Some haircuts are people. They are a little nothing with sky in it, then a cloud, then sky again.