This one talks about her craft,
tells me she’s an artist
and how every head is a canvas.
She takes her time.
She looks things over.
She only speaks between the snips.
She places her palm on my head,
tilts me to the left then back to the right.
She gathers my hair in small, thin sheets.
I appreciate her focused passion,
how she wields her scissors like a brush,
but secretly pray she’s no Picasso.
And this one, the one with the spectacles,
she feeds me rumors
and quenches my thirst for gossip.
By the time my head feels new again,
she’s filled me in on a thing or two
about him and her and maybe you.
“Men may be snakes, but that girl there?”
she says to me, pointing with her comb,
“She’s a mongoose. Rikki-Tikki-Tavvi.”
I nod, pressing my lips together.
I trust her with my hair
but not with my secrets.
And that one? She flirts with me,
tells me little jokes, swats me on the shoulder,
runs her fingers cross my scalp.
I know it’s for the tips, but I don’t care.
For half an hour, I get to pretend,
tell myself that I’ve still got it.
I know I’m not the only one.
I’ve seen the lines, but I don’t mind.
Everyone needs to feel that way sometimes.
She’s not that good at cutting hair,
but she’s great at what she does
so I tip her a few extra dollars.