Gorgons in the Hairdresser's
I watched the three of them come in.
Ample, lumbering, loud girls, upholstered
firm in blue denim and pale lace,
with random flashes of rusted flesh.
Dark, wiry hair, strong teeth, spots,
low brows and deep set eyes.
Maybe sisters? Turkish? Greek?
They filled the place with an apprehension.
Theno wanted shellac snakeskin nails.
Soft olive, neon blitz or poison ivy
and discussed it with a passion.
Eury demanded waxing to remove
her beard and was growling steadily.
The third and heftiest took a seat next
to me and the boy rinsing my hair stiffened.
She was furious angry, literally hated shampoo,
babies, the sea, her hair and Adele, obviously.
As I stood to leave I glanced down
at this dreadful, raging torrent of a woman.
And her hair was coiling, twisting, waving,
I seemed to see tiny eyes flaring, tongues flickering.
Repulsed, nauseated and struck dumb,
I found I couldn’t move.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Catherine Baker
would be pleased to hear them.