Last night on the phone, Grace asked "How do you write a poem?" I told her
I had to think about it, but this morning, I got delayed at the doctor's office and now
I'm at the salon, watching Donna roll foils on Amy's hair. Frankie's on the phone,
Nancy's waiting for her trim, and Stephanie's making small talk with a client.
It's Tuesday, a little before noon. The front door chimes and Grace's question walks in,
waving. I still don't know the answer, but then I see a poem come in behind her,
heading toward the back for a wash and condition, wondering whether she's
ready to go short or keep growing herself out or if she'll just let the stylist
make the decision. And as hot water pours down her forehand and a pair of new hands
begin their strong, purposeful lather, she thinks, Yes. That sounds good to me.