Your Beautiful Hair

I had a dream about hair plucking. You were in it.
You pulled out your hairs, long. You filleted the split
ends, right down the middle,
cracking them open like pecans.

I winced, because I hate your hair.
I hate it when they leap off your head to rest in my drain,
to adorn my shower wall like a mass of worms, sticking all along their length.
I hate it on the bathroom floor,
where you stand to brush it all,
ripping out the half-tethered like a loose tooth,
or a long skinny hangnail
and then transform the floor into a battleground, littered with hair bodies.

When I woke, and you lay there,
peeling the layers off, one by one,
I wanted to scalp you.
I wanted to pop off your head like a Barbie doll so your head
could rest there, on the pillow, gazing at me,
smiling, while your hair stayed where it should be,
IN YOUR HEAD.
Your brain grows it, in lieu of thoughts.

//edited for lines