The Hairdresser - Poem by Ernestine Northover
I think his name was Carlo, or was it maybe Marlow,
He was as handsome, as he could possibly be,
I offered him my 'head' and mentally my 'bed',
I imagined perhaps he'd really fancy me.
His fingers, long and slender, caressed my hair with tender
Manipulation, as he curled each strand,
His work was so artistic, my nerves were going ballistic,
My thoughts of 'frenzied passion' were being fanned.
His body was too near, and I hoped he couldn't hear
These thoughts that now, were whirling through my mind,
His hands were making quivers go down my spine, and shivers
Were finding places of another kind.
He asked if I was elated, by the 'hair do' he had created,
And hoped I would come back again real soon,
I stood up in a trance, and without a second glance,
Turned from him, feeling like a proper 'goon'.
He must have been only twenty, and me with years a plenty,
How could I let my hormones overflow,
I'd come in for a 'hair do' and not a big 'affair do',
I'll have to quickly leave this status quo.
© Ernestine Northover
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