New Year:::Tiger in the Ox

My hair—it is sometimes a flirt, a witch, an innocent, yet once my person is reduced to its length, i have to wear a different one. Perhaps, the scissors cut it accidentally, or perhaps, my five-year-old hair is flirting or bitching once more—whatever it is—it is done now. With no preliminaries—it is now kissing my nape, not my derriere.