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REQUIEM FOR A HAIRDRESSER

he always rested on mondays. now monday's here to stay.
so cover the mirrors, make blunt the scissors' blade.

who'd let another's fingers lather and rinse and knead
while clouds of shampoo gathered? who could command his suite

of bottles and perfumes, massage in essential oils,
with such a slender hand? who'll toe the pedals,

allow the blow-dryers' organ to roar, who'll open the flues?

take black from the palette, mix it with lighter hues.
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