He lifted her straggling hair
with the love of a musician
strummed her strands
cried over their condition.
He leaned her head back
so gently on basin’s rim
then massaged and mused
that her hopes weren’t dim.
She bit her soft moans
his fingers stroked her head
and thought of other pleasure
alone in her bed.
Move over here madam, please.
She fought the tears at the loss
of his touch, the exquisite nearness
of his tight-panted crotch.
Then he cut and fussed
admired and caressed
every strand of her hair
till she felt undressed.
She floated home and
tossed her hair
to show his beauty to those
who would stare.
Her husband asked, why so often
to cut one head of hair
at the price of adopting a child
or a new French au pair
Oh, she says,
he shows respect
my tips are dry
from years of neglect.
To stop the rot
he has to treat me
often
and
long.
Bloody poof, I’m sure
you’re on the wrong tack
shampoo and wax
won’t turn the clock back.
Oh, she said.
Your hair’s nice, he said
stumbling into bed
after the match and the beer
his eyes close in his head
Snoring in seconds
before she can reply:
I’m worth it, she says
my tips aren’t dry.
Iseult Healy is published in several journals including USA, Mexico, and Ireland. Also Shortlisted Galway Hospital Trust Poetry Competition 2015.
She is a member of Ox Mountain Poets and A New Ulster groups, and loves Kevin Higgins’ Over the Edge international online poetry workshops.
