My hairdresser and my heart
My hairdresser, he’s not a beautiful man
or not in the way you were, blatantly
but he’s very nearly symmetrical, which
is this year’s definition of beauty
and he has quick hands the colour of matches
a shirt of flame-whiteness
and a bitchin’ military-styled
apron. Is he in love,
is he hetero or gay; is he green, does he
give cyclists room? It’s impossible to know
what he’s like when he doesn’t know
where to stand in relation to you or
what to do with his hands.
He moves about my head with grace
and urgency, as if deactivating
like Kip at the end of The English Patient
the greatest love story of all time.
All women deserve to be carried out of a desert cave
by a crying man, to be billowed all around by a sheet.
Well I hate my head at the hairdresser: big and blotted
knoll on a hill, knot in a curtain.
A head that belongs on a pillow only
besides which you used to tell me softly
I wasn’t that ugly.
My fringe is snowing slowly
but I feel I’m catching fire.
The way we let them touch us, it’s not right is it?
I don’t unplug myself the way you told me to
so when my hairdresser presses down
on my shoulders, my heart jumpstarts
and when I leave the salon
I almost go out looking for you.