An exploration of my roots

July 16, 2012

There’s Peroxide bleach,
and potential for blindness
and the smell,
and the itching,
poisoned dress,
Medea’s shower-cap.

Then the complementary tea
and the forced entertainment;
holidays, relationships,
hair care maintenance

and the actual burning
the sensation of depilation
the ready supply of Vanity Fair
New Woman, Cosmopolitan.

Then there’s the taking of
blow dried brilliance
for blow job-tastic:

“Hey Pinky, Hey Pinky”
called from a car
“I’ve seen you on the internet”

and the promiscuous,
child like,
drug addicted

the beaureaucratic noting
of communistic tendencies,
at the quarterly review
woven in hairpins.

From my Uncle in Dachau
to my white haired Barbie.
From Hungary to Switziland.
Auschwitz to Acid.

Platinum Bomb shells
to Great Aunt Barishka.

From Russia with love
to Ursula Andres.

From toner to silver.
From cracked to Catwomen

Through my hair
I am exploring my roots.

It’s taken me hours
to paint them sienna.

And I’m not splitting ends but

Delilah, Madonna,
Marilyn Monroe,
Mother Teresa.

Frieda Carlo
meets Lady Gaga,
Simone de Beauvoir,
women are not born
they are made.

I’m sending letters
to Uncle Zoltan

from icy tips
down darkened paths.

I’m sending postcards
to Grandma Ily, Edith Piaf,
I’m posting reports from the other side.

Peroxide Bleach and X men Heroines,
Polar Bears and razing follicles.

First wave, second wave
Perm mutation,
Feminist, Post Feminist,
Lap dance, Prom Queen,

I’m so confused
I’ve turned into snow
in a vain attempt
to exit the show.

Third wave, new wave
Perm mutation
Post, Post Feminist
Prom Queen Fascist

I’m dying my hair
while I still have the leisure.

One day soon
I’ll be old and grey.

I’ll die my hair
a shade of fuchsia.

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