At V’s Pavilion of
Beauty,
the goddess stands at
the single
pump-up chair, her
Botticellian shape
broad beneath a
sea-blue caftan, the waves
of hair that lave her
back
clearly bleached.
She looks you over,
head to toe. A decent set,
she says, hun, that’s all you
need.
Turns, snaps her
fingers.
A trinity of girls—
All named Grace, in
flowered shifts--
Appear with bins of
curlers, a plastic cape.
Before you know it,
your head’s a maze
of tubes no bigger
than a pinky, each
chunk of hair
wound and stiffened
with the sweet
viscosity
of setting gel.
Under the dryer,
as Grace Number Two
paints your toes,
you close your eyes
and drowse.
What succulent star
rises through you, impaling
itself on Dawn’s rosy
clouds?
Comb-out time!
V. sings, raising
The dryer’s hot hood.
She mousses and fluffs
until you’re bouffant
as a cumulus,
the curls covering
your head
as solid and lovely as
the columns of
Corinth.
That boy’ll be
calling tonight, V. sings out.
You swivel the chair
around to face her,
saying How do you
know?
But where the goddess
stood,
Just an airy shimmer
Of extra-firm-hold
spray.
