The Salon

There are few things that cause such stress

Than a little girl in a cute pink dress

With comb and ponytail in hand

And a sneaky grin and a face of demand.

 

“I’ll comb your hair,” she says with glee

I go to jump and bolt and flee;

However, she is fast and smart

She wields her comb with such an art

 

Before I know, I feel it there

The comb she had right in my hair

She yanks it down and pulls with might.

In my reflection, I’m quite a sight.

 

As I let go a wince of pain

It’s nothing to her, it’s just a game.

Of beauty shop and “let’s pretend.”

Through tears and groans I beg to end

 

But then I look into her face

In those seconds I can’t replace

The joy I bring to her with this

A simple “hair-do,” a little wish

 

Of mama-daughter “fun and play”

A memory of a simple day.

 And then I feel another tear

A pull of scalp, a yank of hair.

 

And in my head I think once more

This should be fun and not a chore.

I sit as still as I can bear,

And pray my hairdresser leaves me with hair.