Hair

There are few greater services where a man

Can be catered like a god then at a hairdressers

Lined with silver portals that introduce the monster

But will serve to transform it to something better for society.

“What are we doing with you today?”

“Improvements.”

It’s easy to trust someone who looks nice

You assume that they have earned this appearance

As life has not weathered and wounded them

Better to take advice on living from someone who

Looks like they are better than you.

The angels always wash you first.

The immediate improvement is to remove

the filth you have carried in with you

Is this the same treatment of a soul?

I have very little contact with other people

But this angel moves her hands

Through my hair as a lover,

Purging me of the negative oils

That sit and decay the mind.

They offer conversation as part of the

Relationship experience.

What I want is to sit and savour every

Tender motion but silence is reserved

For actual connections.

Instead I make up interesting factoids

Of a faux reality, something which comes

Easy when charm imitates truth.

No one wants to hear that you sit alone

Craving intimacy to break the droning

Remittance of a time swallowing time.

Imagine the haircut you would receive

If you presented the truth of yourself.

Back in front of the mystics mirror

I am a clean mess, born again.

Her confidence is infectious

And my faux reality is working overtime

To keep up with the presentation we

Began with.

Her blades remove all the samples of

Negativity that don’t fit the character

I have presented.

She doesn’t get close enough to be

Able to smell the alcohol lingering

From my destructive drudgery.

Maybe she does.

Maybe she sees through the lie.

Maybe, you can’t lie to an angel.

Maybe, lying to an angel is a greater truth

Then the sum of your entire life.

She finishes.

The monster glows in the moment

As it’s shown every side of itself but

With a smile and love of a job well done.

The compliments continue to the cash register

A tip to the angel for her spell.

We say our goodbyes and I carry the feeling

Of her gentle fingers across my mind.

As I carry myself along the street with

Glee and a refreshing positivity

The illusion of the mystic mirrors and the angels

Of presentation declared in this representation.

I spot myself in the reflection of a shop window.

I look like an idiot.