"Snip . . . Whoosh . . . Pull . . ."

Every 2 months
   snip . . . whoosh . . . pull . . . 
   
I hear and feel That, 
   circling my head 
   tousling my hair, 
Amidst the fanned silence
lazily twirling above my head.
   snip . . . whoosh . . . pull . . . 

A covert rendezvous,
   between the stylist and I,
Publicly scheduled,
   yet privately felt,
Somewhere between    
   massage and sex.
   snip . . . whoosh . . . pull . . . 

To experience the dance of 
   my inner ear
   my outer scalp,
And my hair's 
   Sacrificial Fall. 
   snip . . . whoosh . . . pull . . . 

An offering of true, well-worn experience —
   part protection, 
   part power,  
   part seduction,
   part cross-cultural style,
   part surveillance,
   part perpetual frustration,  
   part . . .   
   snip . . . whoosh . . . pull . . . 

With each clip of her ultra-sharp scissors, 
   all those dances begin to blur together, 
Orchestrated by my hair whisperer,
   a true Sorceress of Style,
   sending me into orbit around 
   a very personal planet
For which I have little flight training . . .  
  

 

August 2019

 

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©2019, Michael Smolens