BIO
Padma Prasad is a writer and painter who writes pictures and paints narratives. Her fiction has appeared in Eclectica, The Looseleaf Tea, Reading Hour, ETA, The Boiler Journal and Bindweed Magazine. She blogs her poem drawings atpadhma.wordpress.com. Her poem received Honorable Mention in the Palm Beach Ekphrastic Poetry competition, 2016. Her art is mostly figurative and can be viewed at http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/padma-prasad.html. She lives in Northern Virginia. |
Grooming
Morgan decided her name was Pink.Because she had a pink flush on her cheeks and her forehead. She had a well-planned face; the eyes were the right distance from each other, her nose and her lips were the perfect size for each other, so no one feature distracted Morgan. Her shoulders moved with feline elegance, as if just ten minutes ago, she had been a cator a jaguar and now she was his pink hair dresser or to be accurate, hair cutter.
Pink was Mexican; she had come over, with her husband; she had a daughter - information she snipped out as she went at Morgan’s head the first time. Her daughter wanted to be a dentist, she had a new boyfriend, she was a smart one.
Morgan’s hair was very strong, lustrous and bouncy. “Woman’s hair,” Pink said, every time, laughing as she dampened it and gained control.
Morgan couldn’t remember exactly when she substituted, “Woman’s hair” with “Are you married?”
Most probably, it was when her husband was gone like a fly that escapes out of an open window.Each time now, she told the details of his going, backwards, forwards, sideways, inwards and outwards, and in the middle of it all she included, “Are you married?”
The first time she asked, he said, No. When she asked again, Are you married, he said, Yes. It didn’t seem to make a difference to her.
With each haircut, his wife grew.He built her like a bird builds a nest, searching, sorting, assembling, twig by twig, hair by hair, fiber by fiber, until she was perfectly architected and ready for eggs. The wife went to Hungary for a vacation, became vegetarian, became Buddhist, not Tibetan, Vietnamese, and grew native plants.
At first, Morgan was comfortable with going to The Hair Place once a month. Pink talked and snipped; the moment she said, ‘Are you married’, Morgan’s wife got a new detail attached to her existence.
The gap between his visits shortened.
One day, when he turned up, there was a small argument between Pinkand a newly hired hair person about whose turn he was. Finally, the rules were established and Pink led him to her workstation. She made him sit in the chair and adjusted it so that his head reached her chest. He waited anxiously for her to say, “Weren’t you here only last week?” But she did not.
She sprayed his hair with cold water. Then she tried to stretch out the strands to see where she could start cutting. It was no use. There really was nothing left to cut. She bent down and opened one of her drawers and took out a hairstyle magazine. “Maybe try something different,” she said.
They flipped through the pages, stopping now and then, while he was thankful for her thoughtfulness. Finally, she settled on a page. “This good, I think.” She considered the dome of his head as if it was full of hair and proceeded to cut. Her voice buzzed around his head speaking about her husband poisoning her daughter’s mind against her. Her daughter was treating her as if she was an enemy. Are you married? Her daughter hadn’t come home for more than three months. It was no use, whatever she said or did.
Yes, he was married. His wife had had some health issues; but she was recovering. Though the saddest part was that when they were performing the surgery, they had found a child forming inside her; it was eleven weeks old.
The new hire who sat near them, while she waited for the next customer, hissed sharply. “Oh my God, that is so sad. Is your wife ok now?”
Morgan felt quite tearful.
Pink finished.She held up the hand mirror behind him and said, “Good?” He nodded and paid her. As he walked out, he felt the bristle on the back of his head.
The next evening, he paced about in his living room, until he could not stand it. He looked at the time, not yet eight. The Hair Place would still be open. He hurried. Only Pink and the newly hired woman were there, cleaning up. He said to Pink, “I need a haircut.”
For a second, there was a hush as the newly hired woman stopped sweeping and became still life, her broom held straight in front of her.
Pink said, “Shampoo, sir?”He agreed.
She held his head against the sink and washed it as if it was covered with hair. Then she wrapped a towel and brought him carefully to her workstation. She adjusted the chair and made him sit. She removed the towel. She placed the smock around his neck and pressed the Velcro edges. Then she selected her scissors and turned his head this way and that.
He waited. Waited for Pink to say, Are you married.
But Pink stared at his bald head and said, “How is your wife now?”
Morgan bowed his head down. The smock was too tight around his neck. He pulled at the neckline. Pink immediately loosened it.
She snipped around his head. “How is your wife doing now?” she asked again.
Thinking how empty he felt when he said it, he said, She’s gone away to Connecticut, to care for her ailing mother. She might be gone a while.
When he paid her, Pink said, “Wait for next time. Grow a little bit, you know. After your wife returns, maybe?”
The new hire had finished sweeping. She switched off the lights in the back and stood with her hands on her hips, waiting for Pink to be done.
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Morgan decided her name was Pink.Because she had a pink flush on her cheeks and her forehead. She had a well-planned face; the eyes were the right distance from each other, her nose and her lips were the perfect size for each other, so no one feature distracted Morgan. Her shoulders moved with feline elegance, as if just ten minutes ago, she had been a cator a jaguar and now she was his pink hair dresser or to be accurate, hair cutter.
Pink was Mexican; she had come over, with her husband; she had a daughter - information she snipped out as she went at Morgan’s head the first time. Her daughter wanted to be a dentist, she had a new boyfriend, she was a smart one.
Morgan’s hair was very strong, lustrous and bouncy. “Woman’s hair,” Pink said, every time, laughing as she dampened it and gained control.
Morgan couldn’t remember exactly when she substituted, “Woman’s hair” with “Are you married?”
Most probably, it was when her husband was gone like a fly that escapes out of an open window.Each time now, she told the details of his going, backwards, forwards, sideways, inwards and outwards, and in the middle of it all she included, “Are you married?”
The first time she asked, he said, No. When she asked again, Are you married, he said, Yes. It didn’t seem to make a difference to her.
With each haircut, his wife grew.He built her like a bird builds a nest, searching, sorting, assembling, twig by twig, hair by hair, fiber by fiber, until she was perfectly architected and ready for eggs. The wife went to Hungary for a vacation, became vegetarian, became Buddhist, not Tibetan, Vietnamese, and grew native plants.
At first, Morgan was comfortable with going to The Hair Place once a month. Pink talked and snipped; the moment she said, ‘Are you married’, Morgan’s wife got a new detail attached to her existence.
The gap between his visits shortened.
One day, when he turned up, there was a small argument between Pinkand a newly hired hair person about whose turn he was. Finally, the rules were established and Pink led him to her workstation. She made him sit in the chair and adjusted it so that his head reached her chest. He waited anxiously for her to say, “Weren’t you here only last week?” But she did not.
She sprayed his hair with cold water. Then she tried to stretch out the strands to see where she could start cutting. It was no use. There really was nothing left to cut. She bent down and opened one of her drawers and took out a hairstyle magazine. “Maybe try something different,” she said.
They flipped through the pages, stopping now and then, while he was thankful for her thoughtfulness. Finally, she settled on a page. “This good, I think.” She considered the dome of his head as if it was full of hair and proceeded to cut. Her voice buzzed around his head speaking about her husband poisoning her daughter’s mind against her. Her daughter was treating her as if she was an enemy. Are you married? Her daughter hadn’t come home for more than three months. It was no use, whatever she said or did.
Yes, he was married. His wife had had some health issues; but she was recovering. Though the saddest part was that when they were performing the surgery, they had found a child forming inside her; it was eleven weeks old.
The new hire who sat near them, while she waited for the next customer, hissed sharply. “Oh my God, that is so sad. Is your wife ok now?”
Morgan felt quite tearful.
Pink finished.She held up the hand mirror behind him and said, “Good?” He nodded and paid her. As he walked out, he felt the bristle on the back of his head.
The next evening, he paced about in his living room, until he could not stand it. He looked at the time, not yet eight. The Hair Place would still be open. He hurried. Only Pink and the newly hired woman were there, cleaning up. He said to Pink, “I need a haircut.”
For a second, there was a hush as the newly hired woman stopped sweeping and became still life, her broom held straight in front of her.
Pink said, “Shampoo, sir?”He agreed.
She held his head against the sink and washed it as if it was covered with hair. Then she wrapped a towel and brought him carefully to her workstation. She adjusted the chair and made him sit. She removed the towel. She placed the smock around his neck and pressed the Velcro edges. Then she selected her scissors and turned his head this way and that.
He waited. Waited for Pink to say, Are you married.
But Pink stared at his bald head and said, “How is your wife now?”
Morgan bowed his head down. The smock was too tight around his neck. He pulled at the neckline. Pink immediately loosened it.
She snipped around his head. “How is your wife doing now?” she asked again.
Thinking how empty he felt when he said it, he said, She’s gone away to Connecticut, to care for her ailing mother. She might be gone a while.
When he paid her, Pink said, “Wait for next time. Grow a little bit, you know. After your wife returns, maybe?”
The new hire had finished sweeping. She switched off the lights in the back and stood with her hands on her hips, waiting for Pink to be done.
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