| The
Hairdresser Pauses The hairdresser stands behind me, her hands flowing over my hair. We could be under water in a glass tank, an exhibition of absorption or of peace, like the breathing of an accordion before the first note is played. On the worktop creams, scissors, the steriliser hums to itself. The hairdresser pauses, comb poised. What are you thinking? I inquire. She stands in stillness for a time, then: at the moment I am thinking of going out for a cigarette when I am done with yourself. She makes a last pass with the scissors and I picture smoke ribboning from her lips up to heaven. Padraig O'Morain |
If you've any thoughts about this poem, Padraig O'Morain would like to
hear them.
