Sitting in the beauty parlor
In a complex fancy chair
Amid a disparate clientele
My hair wizard talks to me
As she wields scissors.
My little girl is two years old
She says
Working with a delicate touch.
My son is eight, she smiles
He loves Star Wars.
She starts the blow dryer, purses her lips at the sudden roar
Circles me
I am cloaked in a black plastic cape
I look at both of us in the big mirror
She is dancing around me like I am a
Maypole.
