Still life with hair everywhere

Yes, all this in one trip to the beauty salon. There’s no silencing the barbershop quartet playing 24-7 in my head…

The ancient eavesdropper

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
ill-received derriere.
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
monthly decapitation.
Thick, dark filaments float from scalp top
onto the…

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