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.