Hair Cutting Saloon
Thick mirrors of transparent glass,
slates of graphite stuck to wall,
big bottles of shaving foam,
flammable containers of liquid spray,
a tetra assembly of royal chairs,
with protruding headrests of cushioned rexin,
fluorescent light rods producing blue light,
arrays of scissors made of stainless steel,
razor switch blades in plastic shells,
brown hairbrush with artificial teeth,
polygonal cans of medicated shampoo,
soft white towels dipped in hot steam,
aromatic hair oil in copper tins,
giant clock hung to wall nail,
electronic hair drier suspended from a jugglery of
wires,
wooden boxes of talcum powder,
tantalizing odour of body cologne,
huge paint brush coated with black dye,
rectangular green tablets of antiseptic soap,
flocks of silky hair lying dead on the floor,
offering a wide range of services like,
haircut, massage, facial, bleach,
special shave and shampoo bath,
with an iron safe for stacking currency notes,
and a large tumbler of cool water,
shaping hairy demons to presentable gods,
as i stretch my legs,
in the crowded ambience of the hair cutting saloon.
(c) (r) copyright-2004, by nikhil parekh. all rights reserved.
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Related quotes
Bald
I didn’t need shampoo to clean my scalp; instead a glass of tainted
water
could excellently do the job,
On the other hand you required tones of bubbly froth to cleanse your
hair;
evacuate the petulant granules of dandruff neatly entrapped between
your
follicles.
I didn’t need gleaming hair oil to smear on my head; all I had to do
was clap
it loudly with my bohemian palms,
On the other hand you required swanky ointments; antiseptic creams to
keep the
conglomerate of your hair well in place.
I didn’t need scintillating scissors to use on my scalp; it would
appear
wholesomely ludicrous even if I held one in close proximity with it,
On the other hand you required a plethora of sharp instruments; pairs
of
intricate razors; in order to occasionally trim the unruly tentacles of
your
hair.
I didn’t need a brush to part my scalp; as it nimbly obliged to my
scrubbing
it with a dust cloth,
On the other hand you required a luxuriously serrated comb; to
meticulously
entangle the incorrigible knots formed in your long hair.
I didn’t need to camouflage my scalp with a taut piece of cloth every
time I
ventured out; as there was no danger of the wind blowing it away,
On the other hand you required to embellish yourself with a
grandiloquent cap;
a host of flapping sunshades; in order to ensure that the thin wisps of
your
hair didn’t rip apart with the tenacious breeze,
I didn’t need to incessantly browse my hands through my scalp; while
attending
pompous parties,
On the other hand you required to sporadically run your fingers against
your
cuticles; making sure that they remained stringently aligned.
I didn’t need to wash my scalp after bathing in the saline ocean;
instead let
it to dry over a natural course of time,
On the other hand it was inevitable for you to stand beneath a steaming
shower; to annihilate all the poignant salt trapped in your greasy
hair.
I didn’t need to consume a battalion of salubrious vitamins to make my
scalp
glisten; simply standing under the blazing sun itself; granted it an
enchanting shine,
On the other hand you desperately required to procure every tonic
available in
the market; to impregnate an artificial luster in your lifeless hair.
I didn’t need to submerge my scalp into ravishing cologne to get
noticed;
people profoundly admired the openness of my head wherever I went,
On the other hand you used to apply the most enticing of gel on your
lackadaisical hair; and yet remained unnoticed.
I didn’t need to coat my scalp with black chemicals; intermittently
apply a
blend of paint and water to keep it in shape,
On the other hand you were exorbitantly conscious about the greyness in
your
hair; painting it with brilliant dye; remained busy all day trying to
pluck
the insipid strands of white.
Therefore it is my earnest prayer to you O! omnipresent creator; to
create me
without hair for the next 100 births; if I fortunately took birth on
this soil
as man,
For I considered myself infinite times luckier to remain 'BALD'; than
suffer
from the unrelenting tyranny of possessing clusters of bushy hair.
(c) (r) copyright-2004, by nikhil parekh. all rights reserved.
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Green Onion Shampoo
The baby-sitter's nuts! Please listen Mom, it's true!
Last night she washed my hair with Green Onion Shampoo!
Green Onion Shampoo! Green Onion Shampoo!
It smells worse than bad, and when you get through,
Your poor scalp will burn, your eyes will burn too!
Who ever heard of Green Onion Shampoo?
Why did she do that? She has a loose screw!
It's made in Cleveland! This stuff is brand new!
I don't understand! God, what did I do?
To ever deserve Green Onion Shampoo?
Promise to fire her! And trust when I say...
If you rehire her... I must run away!
poem by ToddMichael St. Pierre
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Hairbrush
how i wish my fingers were the bristles
or my breath were the wind when it whistles
thru your hair, thru your hair
i wish you'd hold me in your hands
and let me skate thru all the strands
of your hair, of your hair
i could style it anyway you like it
i could brush it straight or even spike it
au contraire! au contraire!
or i would wait patiently in my box
until next i would comb the locks
of your hair, of your hair
i would braid it tight, tousle, and tease!
or pull it back in a ponytail, if you please;
if you dare, if you dare
how often is it a man confesses
that he wish to run barefoot thru the tresses
of your hair, of your hair?
you may think me a little touch'd
but can i tell you just how much
i hate your hairbrush?
this obsession may be zealous
but can i tell you just how jealous
i am of your hairbrush? !
poem by Rev. Dr. A. Jacob Hassler
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The Mess Of A Man
Meet a man,
A man named Harry,
He's in need of a shave,
And it's quite scary,
He's got hair on his chest,
Hair on his back,
Hair on his ass,
And hair in his crack,
He leaves hair on the soap,
Hair on the floor,
Hair every place,
Including the store,
Harry, dear Harry,
Do something, please,
Your hair retains odor,
And you reek of cheese!
Look at your cat,
What will you do?
Your cat's hairballs,
They're the hairs from you!
No hope, it seems,
For your hairiness,
It'll just regrow,
So live in your mess.
poem by Maddy Jones
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Hairstyles
When i molded long strands of my hair into slender
curls,
fastening them with strings of sticky elastic rubber,
with infinite fibers of black cascading down like a
fountain,
my manly exteriors transited to those of a daintily
adorned teenage girl.
when i submerged the wild mass of my hair in an exact
liter of coriander
oil,
they slept in tranquil contentment on glistening
regions of my scalp,
refraining to budge an inch in stormy sheets of
inclement weather,
dying a disdainful death without savoring the true
taste of life.
when i sheared bulky loads of my hair with a pair of
pocket jacknife,
rustic pathces of my scalp potrayed an alien look,
the humming bees sung merrily on the barren islands,
my head now resembled polished briquette's of
coal; sprawled with white
powder.
when i camouflaged my scalp with beads of pure silver,
adhering sedately to rudimentary bits of yellow gold,
it appeared as if possesed a dungeon of riches,
with parasitic individuals of the society pilfering
through my house of bare
brick.
when i tonsured my skull completely of hair,
gently plucking the last bits of floss with my knotted
fingers,
my scalp got scorched in acerbic rays of the sun,
sparkling a pure ivory white in resplendent beams of
the moon,
i was a grotesque sight to stare; as people offended me
with pools of ludicrous
laughter.
when i parted my hair in exact equal halves,
sprinkling the central rift with pinches of crimson
vermilon powder,
riveting braids of scented flower with scrupulous
proficiency,
i looked strikingly similar to the traditionally
living indian women.
and when i finally combed my hair with casual strokes
of the serrated brush,
splashing jagged stubs of my beard with revitalising
cologne,
kneading my hair vigorously with piquant extracts of
blue whale fish,
i could be sighted unanimously by one and all; as a
truly authentic volatile
man.
(c) (r) copyright-2004, by nikhil parekh. all rights reserved.
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Cutting edge
Like a sharp knife
cutting through a bitter lemon
into red lips dripping
the hairdresser takes my pleasantries,
chops them with a cruel hand,
throws them back in pieces in my face
snip snip into blond hair, brown hair, black, grey, white,
what heroic restraint, condemned
to a lifetime’s cutting, and not
to plunge the scissors into a spinal cord…
this little girl who cut her finger with
her mother’s scissors perhaps
to try to explain how they cut her heart
her love that would grow like hair
how can I know the heart
of this woman who cuts my hair
so expertly.. snip, snip..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Whisky complexioned hair wig
I was born with a thick shock of curly hair,
Silky strands of light brown cascading down my scalp,
Broad outlines of eyebrow fringe,
They were my pride; cuddled on infinite occasions by my mother,
Glistening in sunshine like pure black shoe polish paint,
Caressing minute regions of my skull in breeze blowing with high velocity,
Mingling once in a while with the delicate periphery of my inverted eyelash,
Sighted as a puffed bunch of dark cushion by all in close proximity,
I always kept them shampooed and scrupulously clean,
Sobbed hysterically in private interiors of my room,
When a cluster of school mates harmlessly plucked a few,
I was obsessed with the concept of evergreen hair growth,
Slept all night with tight fitted shower cap clinging to my garden of hair.
Those whirlwind days of youth had now faded,
Unwanted vigils of old age had crept in at amazing speeds,
Bald patches of skin now sparkled in sunlight,
Resembled rich quality pure wax in pearly light of the moon,
The hair which once inhabited my scalp,
Now lay dumped; perhaps under stagnant waters of the city sewer,
Iterative attempts of washing, scrubbing, oiling, applying medicinal balm had proven futile,
I had finally succumbed to the tyranny of fate,
Nevertheless I still wore fluffy fibers of ant red hair,
Which neither budged nor moved an inch; in the most gustiest of breeze,
Projecting pompously from the artificial plastic of my whisky complexioned hair wig.
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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On modern woman
Smile, take a pretty picture,
Be the best woman you can be.
Paint your nails a scarlet red,
Stain your hair a pale blonde,
Be the best woman you can be.
Perk up those breasts,
Put razor to flesh,
Then Scrape off those old skin cells
Breed, woman, breed!
But don't you get stretch marks.
Be the best woman you can be.
Tear the hair from your vulva,
Be the first to church,
When in doubt, smile.
Steam your hair and bleach your teeth,
Don't neglect your husbands needs,
Be the best woman you can be.
Woman, did you read it in a magazine?
You're a void I can not fill.
Don't ever wrinkle.
You don't have to like it, it's gucci.
Snort this line, eat my words.
Don't neglect your petty needs.
Be the best woman that you can be.
poem by H.J. Shreeve
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Sonnet: Human Skin Has Hair
Most women try to have least body-hair,
By cumbersome methods and waste of time;
The human skin, hair follicles does bear,
That will remain, depending on each clime.
Most men too try to shave off facial hair,
Or grow it excessively long, perhaps!
But doing both involves time, money, care,
Or lead to nasty gashes as mishaps.
If mankind did not come from the hairy Apes,
To stay hair-free seems unnatural truly;
But God gave human beings Hairy drapes,
The real cause is still a mystery.
So, strike a balance somewhere, somehow, man!
But do those things that don’t reduce live-span.
8-14-2002
poem by John Celes
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Billy Shampoo is better. I go on first and clean the hair. Conditioner is better. I leave the hair silky and smooth. Oh, really, fool Really.
quote by Billy Madison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Filthy
steel brush hair
uncut for a week
brown-out and
black-out
soap without water
dog waiting outside
telephone rings
no one in the house
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In the next birth
IF I ACQUIRED the menacing form of an
alligator in the next birth,
I would want you to cling tightly to my persona as my serrated green
skin.
If I was born in the ominous form of the jungle tiger in the
next birth,
I would you to be incorporated in my body as my domineeringly
authoritative growl.
If I was born as a densely foliated tree in the next birth,
I would want you to be the perennial leaves that emanated from
my silhouette.
If I was born as an opalescent fish in the next birth,
I would want you to be saline water in which I could sustain life
and swim.
If I was born as the twin horned sacrosanct cow in the next birth,
I would inevitably desire you as the milk I would diffuse from
my flaccid teats.
If I was born as a slithering reptile in the next birth,
I would want you to be the lethal venom I possessed in my triangular
fangs.
If I was born as an obnoxious donkey in the next birth,
I would want you to be my hooves which swished indiscriminately
at innocuous trespassers.
If I was born as perpetually blind in the next birth,
I would indispensably want you to be my eyes to guide me
towards dazzling light.
If I was born as being disdainfully maim; bereft of feet in the next
birth,
I would incorrigibly want you to be my legs to ecstatically leap
in times of jubilation.
If I was born as a rustic spider with a battalion of arms in the
next birth,
I would want you to be mesmerizing threads of the silken web
which I inhabited night and day.
If I was born as an inconspicuous mosquito in the next birth,
I would want you to be the sting existing in my bifurcated tentacles.
If I was born as a agglomerate of sinister clouds in the next birth,
I would want you to be pelting sheets of rain tumbling down on the
scorched ground.
If I was born as a traditional dancer in the next birth,
I would desire you to be the jingling chains riveted to my anklets.
If I was born as a voluptuous chameleon in the next birth,
I would want you to be the band of colors that I changed according
to my habitat.
If I was born as a scintillating oyster in the next birth,
I would want you as the jugglery of immaculate pearls
impregnated in my belly.
If I was born as a solitary camel in the blistering heat of desert,
I would inevitably desire you as barrels of pellucid water to
placate my thirst.
If I was born as drummer performing at concerts in the next birth,
I would want you as the drum which would be essential for the
sound to propagate.
If I was born as the most opulent on the globe in the next birth,
I would intractably want you as the notes of currency; which
I possessed in exorbitant capacity.
If I was born as infinite blades of emerald grass in the next birth,
I would want you to be the fertile land mass of soil to provide
me tumultuous loads of nutrition.
If I was born as the frivolous monkey in the next birth,
I would want you to be my claws; facilitating me to clasp tree
branches in a vice like grip.
If I was born as an ambivalent filmmaker in the next birth,
I would want you to be every film that I directed in my reigning
tenure.
If I was born as a tantalizing rose in the next birth,
I would want you to be my everlasting fragrance.
If I was born as a mundane ceiling fan in the next birth,
I would want you to be my riveted blades; circulating exuberant
draughts of air.
If I was born as a boisterous honey bee in the next birth,
I would want you to be the sweet nectar I produced from my
catacombed body.
If I was born as an inconspicuous nail hung to the wall; in my
next birth,
I would want you to be the peels of rust I acquired on my body.
If I was born as the fibrous fruit of apple in the next birth,
I would want you to be the cluster of seeds impregnated in my belly.
If I was born as an indigenous woman in the next birth,
I would overwhelmingly desire you as the contemporary man
from the city.
And if by the stroke of chivalrous fortune; I was born as a man
again in the next birth,
I would want you to be the same girl; whom I loved immensely today; existing on this earth.
(c) (r) copyright-2004, by nikhil parekh. all rights reserved.
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Bread Hair
Im a wigged-out daddy with bread on top
I dig an easy-bake granny with a whiskey mop
If you love me, you neednt the whole wheat crop
cause they had a useless battle andll never stop
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Youre drivin all my hope away
Im a pumpernickel-do for you, dough you do
Use a yarmulka of hallah bread if youre a jew
I belong to cayope*, I be the wheat for you
Yeast and flour, bake an hour, its annoying shampoo
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Drivin all my hope away
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Youre drivin all my hope away
Thats a gone rug, buddy
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Perfect Scenery-Cloud's end
Here as i sit with network of green to surround,
the Falcon soaring high in the blue sky,
a blanket of dew drops on the fresh green leaves,
shining a perpetual golden brown.
the silence and tranquility of the blissful air,
blueberry flowers on steep slopes of valley,
causing mystical ravines of my heart to flood with
beauty and sizzling
excitement,
the magic touch of heavenly green spreads all over,
there follows a heavy downpour of tropical rain,
macro droplets of water cascade everywhere,
with the grass blades crying out in anticipation to
swallow the rain drops,
clear and transparent, quenching their thirst for
divine blessings,
leaving them submerged in a river of celestial love.
tall pine trees had their drooping branches covered
with white snow,
shielded the valley in heat with their shade and
warmth,
enriching every inch of soil with their overgrown
root,
as golden rays of the sun shine on their leaves,
displaying vivid contrasts of velvety green and satin
yellow,
obscuring my eyes with film of salty tears,
enjoying this lovely rapturous sight,
fulfilling desires lurking in my soul with vibrant
echoes of ravishing
nature.
(c) (r) copyright-2004, by nikhil parekh. all rights reserved.
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Characteristics of People
Long hair,
Short hair
Dark or light,
Black or white
Small or full lips,
Thin or wide hips
Blue eyes,
Brown eyes
Skinny or fat,
This or that
Everyone has one or another,
Wether it's from themselves
Or their father or mother.
poem by Jessica Goudreault
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Intimate (Love Poem)
She makes him sit and unbuttons his shirt
Makes him lie back and wets his hair, then
Her hands massage shampoo into his scalp
She is irresistible, every moment etched on
His brain, her sensuous touch, an incredibly
Close feeling, as she washes his hair, this is
More beautiful than breath, more loving than
Sex, more electric than near, more perfect
Than curling up, more intimate than naked.
poem by Ian Beckett
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You scratch your head, I stretch my hair
The last sip of water...
I'm waiting for drinking another bottle of wine
I do not need answer but I keep asking why
My facial features are stirred up into a coma
Our god does allow me to continue
loving..
But my reality talks me into letting go.
You head is not that rational, but
why you insist that hardship is always hard?
I do not want to give up, the same as the fact
that I do not want to keep up.
You do not wash your hair, unclean
I wash my hair every so often, the result is the same
Stretch my hair.
my five fingers stretch the ends of strands...
Memories do not slip through...
but hair drops, adding more miseries
poem by Garland Jodie Jeen
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Now it is winter when trees are skeleton
Now it is winter when trees are skeleton,
stripped bare and have no more leaves
as if they are lifeless
and the weather is grey as if
there’s only chill and sieving rain
with banks of covering fog
that cuts the sun and light,
into a cold pitiless world
and then you first past and come to me
with a yellow raincoat, your pants splashed wet
where you shake your hair out, like a dog does with rain
in a blizzard of spray, getting it out of your hair
and I know that our time is only burrowed
when you stretch against me, cuddly and slim, just you and me alone
and you are hot like a ray of light that unexpectedly comes down,
we are one in passion, in a moment
after which I remove the hairclips from your hair,
your eyes are gleaming like shining pieces of steel
and you are only mine, with soft lips and big eyes
and bliss descends between us.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Hair Styles I Remember
There are hairstyles I remember wearing
oh so long ago.
My father had a fit with most of them
told me, 'go comb that mess out before you go! '
I'd rat it up with the small toothed end of comb
so the base would hold it up.
Then took a brush to smooth it some
and then I sprayed it so it stuck!
The wind could blow its hardest
but my hair withstood its gail!
When anyone would touch my do
they said it felt as hard as nails!
There was one do called the, Bee Hive
It was hallowed out in the center.
Some gilrs would hide their smokes in there
and have a puff or two after schools dinner.
Then there was the bouffant flip
it was the smallest flip you'd ever seen.
Your head looked like this big balloon
with a small hat rim of hair flipping up, was keen!
Then the Pixie and the Bob
boxed off hair cut for cool guys
long hair for the slobs!
Then the Beatles made their hair debut
my father hated them.
Everyone wore the Nauru jackets
and their pant legs tight and slim!
Then Farra Faucet, that's a funny name
but her hairstyle look, was in the hair book hall of fame!
Not too many new looks I see now a days
just long or short, no curls, no waves.
No teasing of hair, no spray or thick gels
But highlights for sure, all look swell.
I'm glad those days are over with
took forever for you to get ready.
Now it's just blow and go, and sprits or two
and your off on a date with your steady!
poem by Linda Winchell
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Douse
Turn the dial, hear it click,
then the water will start to drip,
slowly the water will begin to flow,
filling your body with a warm glow.
Looking towards the ceiling,
you’re struck by a wondrous feeling,
of water rolling down your face,
of water that’s warm to taste.
Then you’ll reach for the shampoo,
that special lotion cleaning you,
then finish off with shower gel,
or soap shaped like a seashell.
Finished, low and behold,
open the door, you’ve gone all cold,
just think you’ve got up early,
just to see your hair go all curly!
poem by Dale Mullock
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