At The Hospital Hairdresser’s

scalp soothed
water rushing over my hair
I freefall
the touch of fingers
easing in shampoo
though it makes
peaks of white
like meringue

head resettled
held firmly
rubbed briskly
with a fresh smelling towel
I look briefly
like a film star
in her dressing-room

a parting put in
then rollers
a tight group of
bold creatures
having a family conclave on my head
are the thin vibrant blue ones
the teenagers?

friendly in here
my loneliness forgotten
for the time it takes
for my hair
– untouched by intimate hands –
to dry

packed rolls of hair
unspun combed out
spring back as planned
into swelling waves

She yet cannot hear me
As I silently ascend
A secret staircase to her boudoir
And our amorous end.

I look nice


©Maureen Sangster, 2013

Please contact me for permission to use