I walk into the beauty salon
and take a poorly upholstered seat,
its brilliant leather blinding me
as if I saw Sigmar Polke’s dots before
sitting down in Matisse’s Red Room,
my green shirt a complementary
color waiting to explode my cones
and grease lightening under this
Even the rug between the front desk
and window glass has Henri’s emblazoned arabesques,
a parading pallet of Tie-dyed follicles and footprints,
static electricity under stress,
someone else’s hair dress mess amiss.
Standing up, I walk over to the doo-stylist
and plaster my keister on Rodin’s
child-sized Thinker commode,
a crimson tapestry hypnotically
pulled by wrists with hula-hoop bracelets
under my chin, over my lap, the wool
that dropped the bull’s head before
the matador’s shave with death.
A trill metallic grinding tickles my skin,
snapping keratin to attention for
Thick, dark filaments float from scalp top
onto the bridge of my nose, where one wiggle
relinquishes hair to air to red apron below.
My synapses suddenly strike a contrasting
musical lyrical of the Rolling Stones painting it black,
goodbye Ruby Tuesday, who could hang a wig on you.
But I digress.
Behind my shoulder, the stylist is saying something
about trimmer settings, “Remember, it’s 2, 3, 6,
2 behind, 3 on the sides and 6 on top.”
If my wife wasn’t there in the chair next to me,
I’d think this woman was laying the ground rules
for an indecent propositioning.
When I arise from the chair, I pay the lady
and tip $3 extra for her troubles.
Thank God she’s not clairvoyant.
Back inside the Subaru, sunshine blushes
white skin above the tan line of my face’s behind,
neck unburdened, brain dead, stuck in rush hour traffic.