Poetry from The Literary Review
Beautiful Me
Julie Lechevsky
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At twelve I hated to go to the Blue Jean Hair Saloon and have to chat with high school graduates about my latest crush, sitting crumped in enamel arms under a white sheet, told not to move my head, or smoke, or eat, or tap my foot, my curls like grafitti cursive on the floor. They would spin my world and stop it with their hip, breathing peppermint down my neck, my head wound tight as a turnip, while outside Sixth Street ran like a yellow brick road to some place nice. Only when I slammed the door to that place could I breathe again. At 20 I got a stint in a porn shop as a receptionist and had to look good for my boss. One week he wanted me in curls, the next in cornrows. He was so bald he could have been a Nazi. My boyfriend wanted me blonde and long, nothing fit for a locket, my mother wanted me short and black, to stuff me under a cap. I decided to get the weekly special at shops I chose for their names: Cut Hut, Whack Shack, Happy Hair, Archway to Beauty. This got me interested in poetry. Now that my hair is silver I yearn for a hand at my neck, the pad of fingers on my C-2 vertebra, like doctors searching for clues to my genius. Each glorious Saturday, bathed and bright, I’m Cleopatra waiting for her oil, lapped in my chromosomes, my creams, my Cyclades. Pre-symbolic chat about Bush can fill my ears like opera. And when they spin my chair, I’m back on a carousel, riding the little horse, holding my purse with its reins, hoping the music won’t stop. Only when I jangle out the door do I know my life’s over. |
