Hair Care by Pierre

I was finally compelled

to cut my lengthy hair.

Twirling it on my fork

in spaghetti’s place,

staining it Ragu-Red;

quaffing it with my

wine, the peril of dangling

strands;

unable to see the road

whenever it flopped

in front of my eyes—

like a weary, shaggy

dog that blocks my view—

of the movie I’m

trying to watch: Medusa, 

rival of Rapunzel (in terms of follicles

gone amok);

locks which turn to

snakes before it’s over—

causing havoc

when it’s lathered in

Selsen Blue.

This Frenchman barber assures

me I’ll be able to see her face

as clear as day,

thrilled to make a house call,

that 911 has an option now

for bedhead gone berserk,

its clump of grey

expanding on the floor—

that my cat’s been hissing 

at, her back arched like the

Triomphe de l’Étoile,

mistaking it for

another of its kind.

I’ll offer up a eulogy

at St. Andreas—

the Orthodox Church

of the Greeks

just down the road,

blubber I’ll miss

the way it lifted

in the breeze,

like some starlet in

Côte d'Azur,

my tresses later waving

like a scarf out on a line,

gone white in its surrender

to the wind; or a flag

at the half of mast, mourning

my forfeiture, 

like a blinded

Samson, betrayed—

not by some Delilah

but my need to be

pragmatic; what’s left

beneath my New York  

Giants cap, snagged

amid the incense

in the nave; glancing

behind my unobstructed

shoulder—

as I walk the promenade,

fret the breath of old Perseus

will hoist it off my head

and out to sea.

Andreas Gripp

May 13, 2025

Perseus with the head of Medusa