February 19, 2013

My hair, smelling of coconut and satsumas
and falling relentlessly onto the carpet
in the dining room
and onto the sofa
and the parquet in the kitchen
and the tiles
and onto my clothes and woolen shoulders
black jumpers, leggings
to mingle with the cat’s
who is both white and ginger
but who only ever seems to shed the white
hair; waiting to be hoovered,
or brushed, or sticky taped
to death.

My hair is waiting to transubstantiate.
To become the hair of Cindy Crawford,
thick,
fibrous,
rope
like.

Each strand the width of a motorway.
Each strand, endless.
Each strand incapable of falling out, thinning, breaking
ever needing to be hoover-ed up.

My hair is waiting to transubstantiate.
To grow pink. To self -hoover.
To learn to speak in cat tongs.

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