Dishevelment
While all the salons are closed and we’re closeted at home,
our hair continues to grow. It pushes forward,
reaches record lengths, exposes shameless roots.
Shipwrecked, desperate, we scour our cupboards for sheers,
study YouTube tutorials. Make feeble attempts to snip, pluck, trim.
Alas! We’ve lost our shape, our bob, our look. Our colour has faded.
And hair dye—that most magical potion—is nowhere to be had.
Store shelves are bare. Even Amazon’s pockets are empty.
Some small-minded, nefarious soul has hoarded it all.
Let the universe pronounce a sentence! Show no mercy.
Like the envious in Dante’s Purgatorio, let the sinner’s eyes be sewn shut
while we, in our despondent, humbled state, reach for beanies,
scarves and baseball caps. Turn our mirrors to the wall.
Yield to our collective dishevelment.
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