BLUE HAIR

Blue hair.

'Who did your hair?' She is a middle aged peach blossoming in her own hair salon. Yes. Her own. Shades of black-grey decor sharpened with a little risqué sheer black at one or two discreet eyespots. Her cleaning lady, also washes clients’ hair. Sometimes they give tea, which her clearing lady makes. Despite the medium sized salon, expense covers every gap in accepted glamour. Overlooking all, from the heights of a hill, so did she. Sweeping a brisk broom-glance from my crown to the end of my hanging hair, tinted in peals of blue. Discontent ripples from her still pose, a forced smile in case I noticed. Of course I saw it.

We cannot see it. We can feel it. Our dear small town society, a corset bundling middle-of-the-road agreements, a morphic field that impart rules for living human beings. How hair should be. The iron grip narrowed over a decade or two. Really fast. Our men got captured, not humans now, but a show of prison collective. The soft sometimes, curly beauty of the individual signature of all men are erased. Females willingly urge them, to shave or at least get a haircut. So ugly. Look at the profile of men, young and old. Notice the backhead fleshy bulks of the rear head. See how it screams at the frontview, do not try to be attractive at all.

But Blue hair? For a woman with grays that actually merely dulls any ones luster?

Some questions are not asked inside the pool of our murky collective morphic field.

"Who did your personality?"   'Mmm... you did it all by yourself? No professional to help you? None at all?"