JUBILANT FATHER
His face is like a sun, warms the moon beside him.
She´s grown full; tonight begins the waning.
The tide pulls through her very bones,
her form aches as each wave crests.
The earth pulse, heavy, blood warm within her
Beats new chords, old sun god chants.
"You are the first mother and the last,
all spring flesh has traveled through you."
Aztec plumed and gold beaded,
your priest kneels at the holy alter,
gathers each salt pearl shed, nectar for his sacrament.
You are the temple,
we pilgrims swept through the gates,
bent figures know the scent and petals of your presence,
spread our arms to harvest blossoms,
and your priest, sun struck, kneels beside you.
Teasing, rolling, need a little clip. Hairspray, blow dry, one more snip. Color, rinse, perm after perm. For a hairdresser, work-a-holic is our term.
I deal with screaming children, who don't want a cut. And the people who keep rolling in, after the doors should shut.
My feet ache, my hands are numb. Will this day ever be done?
I head home with talc in my lung, and some hair stuck in my thumb. But I couldn't imagine anything i'd rather be, cause life as a hairdresser, is the life for me!
