My mother got her hair done
every single Friday all her life
before going
to the Beth Israel Synagogue Center
where her hair as well as the hair
of all other women there
entirely immobile,
half a can of hairspray
guaranteed no stray locks.
Hers was a black helmet
most of her life, battened down
with scotch tape
on both sides at night
to preserve the Elizabeth Taylor look.
She would not ever wear a hair net
because hair nets were for old ladies
and she was never that.
Esther, this is a full memoir in a single poem. I love it. And you are in it too.