Friday, June 12, 2015

To dye or not to dye, Kevin.

 imo a Very Special satirist-PiR, Iven Kishnigg.


To dye or not to dye, that is a question. I dyed
several times in the late nineteen-nineties,
at the insistence of a concerned friend
that sincerely believed they were doing me a favor

buying the dye & giving it me 'cause they thought
I could regain the previous deep dark hair
color I'd had during the early days of adulthood

when it was a riot of thick black curls trimmed
in a late-eighties post-new-romantic quiff-like
do of who I was before tide and time turned once

thick curled locks to a straightened thinner peppered
silver salt that's light purple-pink within weeks.
I looked ridiculous, guessing because nobody told

me how clearly dyed i was, feigning surprise
when I said i was dyed, smirking; they would laugh
in my face, but felt too sorry for me to do so.

It was only when I caught sight of my reflection
in a shop window six weeks after dying that I
got shocked to see what the audience of my hair

had witnessed. I cut it all off straight away
on number two of the trimmer specifically bought
for the task, a net benefit self-hairdressing

tool for the following eight years, recouping
its cost and saving spondulics over the years.

Now I get it cut always in a different place
six times a year because I do not know whether
it's just me or if my paranoid vision

of hairdressing in Ireland is legitimate,
but all the hairdressers i've met as a person
getting a haircut, bar two, both in England,

have not translated the vision of what i want
into any successful hairdo reality and now it's
gone as far as wondering if the current crop

actively sabotage the experience and end result
for me by choosing to perform on my bonce
the exact same cut one always ends up with.

An institutional style mother called it
when last I was at home a few weeks ago
bemoaning the Irish and their hairdressing

professionals, rampantly unqualified charging
at least fifteen quid to make me look a product
of the central mental hospital.

To dye or not to dye, that is a question.

Kevin Desmond Swords

1 comment:

Carolyn Logan said...

I had auburn hair which was never anything but my mother daily praised. Ah it was that strawberry blonde of my grandmother from Waterford. the stuff that had driven my grandfather mad or so I was told. Well of course at the firs opportunity I bleached the red stuff blonde and upon returning home to tiny town Massachusetts went to the bank with my Mom. Before even entering the Hingham Institution for Savings, in south suburban Boston, former classmates with their mothers jumped out of their cars and one loudly cried " What did you do to that hair?" That Strawberry Hair?" Well it was now blonde so I continued into the Institution where I was read the riot act by two bank tellers and the mother of the classmate who had entered the scene. In future years as the red turned grey and then blonde actually, I attempted to make it red again. Ha I will never forget then coming home from Europe and my mother meeting me at Boston that is Logan airport, Her first words were.. " You look like a harlot with that brassy hair. She then took me to a hair dresser to neutralize the wild artificial red. Now my hair is some say platinum some say white but whatever it is it is mine