Ladies,
You’re killing me
with your bulkiness,
your outmoded styles,
the long, odious fringes that fall
where eyebrows should be. No surprise
wan, bashful women sink
under the weight of your personalities
when all they were seeking
was something unobtrusive
that made them feel mildly healthful,
little changed, walking out
into the world of observers again
after so many months in hiding.
Bad wigs,
with your timeless names,
you serve as reminders of all the bad bald stories—
the shower blocked with hanks of hair,
that embarrassing, thick moult
down the back of a coat two days unnoticed,
and once,
a sleepless five-year-old
found knotting pieces from her pigtails,
cut with dangerous blades,
onto a hairband for Mummy,
whom she’d espied crying
naked in the bath.
Poem
Norma-Jean, Naomi, Tammy and Grace
Johanna Emeney