Sitting in the hairdresser’s chair
mid process,
my hair spiked by
colouring agents
Purple swathes against beige
I look like I’ve been adorned
for a tribal ritual
Frankly it’s vaguely frightening

And how the lights play
on my visage
making me look, I swear
twenty years older than I am
makes me worry
always at this moment (every time!)
is this the real me
while my sense of how I look
more normally
is just an artful delusion?

Well, perhaps
Yet I know
even should this be,
when this ritual is complete
that illusion,
if that is all it is,
will thankfully return
sweetly coiffed
as I rise to go

Not there yet
I free float in familiar anxiety
Speaking of which
I look for a moment
at the washing basins
which look for all the world like
modern, sleek, artful renderings
of medieval torture devices
A rite of passage
that must be traversed
to reach the end
of some essential trial

And the irony hits me
All the convenience, simplicity
and ease of care
that I derive from shorter hair
can only arise
from three sisters – Time, Patience
And Complexity
in the hairdresser’s chair.

(c) Helen Valentina 2013, All Rights Reserved