In Came Monique

Monday morning at suburban station
The week at the shore still resounding within
And without, at that, spoken by my absurd hairdo
Wasn’t even nine yet and the stuffy quiet car left sweat
On my back and lower than that, visible most likely
I stood side by side with several homeless men and one woman smoking a cigarette
She was selling drugs there in the bathroom
Water dripped from my face into the sink blackened with grime
You can’t go to work with your hair looking like that
They’ll think you’ve come to put holes in the place
Found a barber shop on the way out the 17th street exit and skirted in
“luck” popped in my head, a nice start
he didn’t speak English well but understood “all the same” when
I pointed to the shortest of the hair on my head
Then came all different types of scissors
Long, short, grooved, thick, thin
Combs wide-to-thin-toothed
Clippers of all different numbers in and out of their respective docks
The hot shaving cream and a straight blade
around the back and side perimeter like a real wop
grandpa’d say
it made me look like George Clooney
but hell, did it take a lifetime
into the heat, struggling down the fiery street
quarter of went I was three quarters late
Darleen buzzed me in while looking at her watch
“Has he been in long?”
“Not yet today, even,” she responded and I slowed down
again, “luck” bounced around
I sat and used tissues to wipe my soaked face and neck
while my messages played on speaker
undiscovered and thrilled
and in came Monique
porcelain
wrapped in cotton
dough filled thighs and calves
balanced on twigs beneath her heels
an auburn waterfall cascading into a crevasse
“Your hair, it’s short.”
I choked on the puddle that had collected on my tongue
“Yes.”
And I realized the many benefits of a good haircut