September 19, 2011

In a room, in a basement
at the clinic of hair
there are nurses au natural
and patients that stare.
There are magazines rustling
Countryside la vie.
There’s a man with a crossword
and a widow’s peak.

There are bobbed brunets,
and Elvis quiffs,
and Gaga tresses
in diamonte pins,
and women in turbans,
and women just bald,
like hard boiled eggs
or billiard balls.

In a room, in a basement
at the clinic of hair
there’s a guy with no eyebrows
or hair on his chest.
There’s a fine set of lashes
stuck on with glue.
There’s a shadow on an arm
but it’s only a bruise.

And I’m covering my patch
with a four inch flower,
aware that here
it’s the equivalent of a siren.

Alopecia, alopecia,
I love you Gail Porter,
I’ll get a job as Sinead O’Connor
and learn to kill 80’s aliens.

I’ll get a big wig
and do Cher impersonations,
wear feathers on my head,
I’ll join a boy band.

It’s the first thing I’ll say
when I get in the chair,
I’ll water it with tea
and give it a name.

It’s the first thing I’ll tell them
when I get in the chair,
when they unclip the flower,
and lift up the parting,
in a basement room,
at the clinic of hair.

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