He looks like any aged pensioner
sitting,not round the corner with the men
but here, a mangy fox among hens
these women, their angled reflected glances.
He waits to take his chances
listens to the chirrup of timers
as he stares at the shadow of years
not the first manthey have seenhere
but surely the oldest.
They notice the heart-to-heart
between him and the sexy stylist
who gesticulates, frowning yet smiling.
His glasses, her scissors, eyes, gleam.
Only a thin thatch there from the start.
The women settle with their own glam dreams.
Hair trimmed, he stays in the chair.
The stylist’s colour samples are the key.
Time for reflection again.
They stare at the stripes, dark red
top centre of his old forehead
travelling across his memories
widening to form a victory V.
Bleach ages the rest of his hair
yet, under the dryer, defiant youth
might cry out for blood, red on white.
His tall grandson, blond locks a-tumble
strides past product,new ideas, greets him
winks at the camisoled stylist
pleased his smocked Pop’s battling boyhood team
finally delivered his decades-old dream.
Ian C Smith