Hairstylist

Hairstylist

    After my bus rumble ride we wait for Molly’s grand entrance. But text mails to her unanswered as the hours build into slow storm front of worry.
We line the grey clouds with silver of getting to know the new lady. Molly parades in with a smile.
    In mid hair wash she declares no greenbacks for her tonight. Her fingers comb my wet locks with feline finesse like a cat grooming her lover.
She flows in the kelp forest of my hair with her hip cocked against my shoulder.    
    My cat woman in black conjures my Aladdin’s lamp. My lips spill occult secrets of my life in the pit of Hades. Molly soaks my hair in holy water as her fingers baptize my scalp. I pour the sacred wine of my life into her Chalice ears.
    Molly’s 13 year old daughter is in a madhouse merry go round. Molly’s ex husband, and father of her children, has erased their daughters from his book of life. Now at her age of wonder all the child cries are tears of blood. Molly’s kid needs to tell him to fuck off. But he is as remote as Novaya
Zemlya.
    Molly wraps her daughter in her maternal blanket. But her girl’s moods turn dark as burgundy. Fatherly love is stolen like insulin denied a diabetic by a man of glacial ice. His conscience never took root in his arctic heart.
    Molly’s obsidian eyes sparkle like candles on the eve of Easter in a church of the divine darkness. Her gaze is a Gothic mass to succor her beloved daughter.
    I am her confessor in this sacrament of words tossed like salad into our savory sharing of spices. I wrap her in a paternal blanket of words.
    Molly’s hands rub my beggar’s crown with a lotion of love lost. Her fingers comb my wet locks like fish swimming through kelp strands. Her hip is cocked against my shoulder.
    I sit like a king in barber chair. She insinuates her body between my spread legs while trimming my bangs. She presses her thigh onto my hand
while shearing my mane. Her zipper grazes my forearm with me deep in damsel delirium.
    She lays her tender lady fingers upon my impressionable skin. She leaves a trail of pleasure. Her sacramental touch presses erogenous love with
her fingernail tapestry into my pate.
    She tantalizes with a sprinkle of paprika chat. Her Tabasco tongue timbre is an aural bath. She washes me in flirt of female.
    “I have a close woman friend. I’ve known her for twenty five years” I say.
    “Is she going to live with you?” she says.
    “Oh no. She’s interested in women. She used to be attracted to me.” I say.
     “My client who just left has a wife who is bisexual. Men like to see women make love together. But it is risky. Women don’t separate sex and love like you men. Women have a ferocious side. Once ignited their female flame is all consuming. It will burn out of control. Introducing a third into a relationship is playing with fire” She says.      
    “I have a friend who brought another woman into his marriage bed. His wife almost left him to be with this woman” I say.
     “When women get in the heat of passion nothing can stop them. They are indomitable” she says.
     She picks me up off the floor and dusts me off.
     Her denim derriere gathers my gaze. My plea to compensate her is “You don’t have to do this.”
    “I said I would. And I want to” she insists. Our smiles meet like old friends.
    “I’ll make it up to you next time” she says.