Hairdresser: A Poem by Paula Bohince | The New Republic

Hairdresser

Seated one, loved by the lavishing comb

and fingers of another woman demon-

strating how attention and technique coalesce

into art.  Where to go

when the mother is gone.

All occupations form to replace her. 

What relief to be a girl again for an hour,

beneath the practiced wrists of her avatar.