Beauty Salon

The salon is packed. There's the usual frisson of excitement that belongs to a Saturday morning; lots of chatting, some talk about weekend plans.  I recognize a few people who, like me, are regulars.  I enjoy the pleasant pull of Marie's strong fingers as she blow-dries my hair, shakes it back and forth.  In the mirror, I see the frothy cloud she has created and will soon tame. My eyes slip sideways. Several feet in front of and to the left of me I see a face that blots out everything.  A middle-age woman has her head tilted back.  Her skin has a gray tinge.  Her lips are moving but no sound comes out.  Her eyes are tightly closed but tears leak through and slip down her round cheeks.  Jane is cutting her hair.  Big chunks of it fall on the woman's shoulders and the floor.  Very soon, Jane will begin shaving her scalp. She stops to wipe tears from her own eyes so she can go on.  I look up at Marie who shakes her head and mouths the word cancer.

The woman's sorrowful face returns to me many time during the day.  The way she squeezed her hands, her lips moving with silent incantations, the bright world buzzing around her. That night, I wake up and see her face again.  I wonder if she, too, is awake. Her head cold, her ears strangely exposed.

Hopefully, Happy Valentine's Day

And if it's not so happy because you don't have a valentine, or your valentine disappoints you (sends you one of those stupid bears) or you are breaking up (I hear that happens fairly often on V day) remember there are chocolates and flowers bloom for everyone.  Here's a poem for all unhappy valentine people that actually suits any day of the year.

A Place for Everything

I had a tidy heart
in a nice place in my chest.
Then one-more-thing happened
and my heart escaped.

At night when I am sleeping
it wakes me with a pinch
and in the day when I am speaking
it climbs up in my throat.
I'd like to take a stick to it.
I'd like to wring it in my hands
until the last drop of sorrow
plops.

That's crazy talk my brain tells me,
always my better friend.
Time heals
your heart will mend
grow small again
and find its rightful place.

Bridget Harwell