Dye Another Day

She comes with curlers, bleach, and flair,
a mobile salon is her lair.
Blonde and breezy, wide-eyed, neat,
she knows who’s next on every street.

She trims and talks of those now gone,
of Vera’s wake and poor old Ron.
She sets your hair, you feel quite ill,
she smiles and says, ‘you got a chill?’

The clippers buzz, her scissors flash,
how suddenly you’re counting cash,
that debt unpaid, your Will unsigned,
she hums and twists, her cuts maligned.

And when she leaves, the mirror cracks,
your dog won’t sit, he can’t relax.
You cough. You sway. You feel uncertain,
as Sheila combs that final curtain.