at the "salon"

no greek or latin aphorisms
no powdered whigs,
nor Prufrockian cracked crab claws,
corsets, poets,
exalted aristocrats,
or jurassic scientists
demonstrating the new views
from the amazing telescope

no, only a soft red couch,
hundreds of shining nail polishes,
a painting of lesbians lip-locked,
and a group of very young
solidly middle class young ladies
dressed with ornate modesty
except a young mulatto
showing her treasures more frankly...
the blonde in the swinging chair
showing a gay but careful concern
for the details of her flowing hair,
all of them a little fascinated
by the human fur artist...
a voluptous nymph-faced creature
of my acquaintance
(purple hair being her notable feature,)
and I pretend to read about
how the silicon god-saint Steve Jobs
ascended glowing to Profitecca

soon I was in a swinging chair
having my hair cut by a young man
with Cure-ish make-up
and gay mannerisms.
after a pleasant mutual greeting
he began precise clipping
at a brisk pace,
to my relief as I felt a little ill
but not too sick
for pleasant glances
at the purple-haired nymph
on her way past my chair,
always careful not to stare,
just a twinge of anxiety
as his tiny blades dance close
to my precious ears

then, hot water, shampoo
skilled fingers on scalp,
then equator hot air
drying my pampered fur...
finis and shekels