Beauty Shop. (Literally speaking)

The smell of ammonia fills up the beauty shop.

Something is cooking in the hair drier. Someone

is having her hair fried. Toxic fumes so difficult

to consume in a room full of high estrogen levels.

Traces of fake nails, fake hair, fake eye lashes,

Hair pieces, braids and Botox fill up the room.

Eye brows are ripped to give the scary surprise look,

hair follicles are stripped and eye lashes dark like tar.

Well constructed clown faces chattering and chirping

about everything. Reconditioned females seated

pouting their mouth in the waiting area. The lines of

deceit printed on their lips. Women sharing beauty

secrets and complaining about brittle nails, wrinkles

on their faces, stretch marks, dry thinning hair and

weak muscle tones. Talking about their partners,

friends and neighbors and sharing experiences.

Telling tales from the corners of their eyes, the

beauty shop is also a gossiping haven for females.

A woman of farce sits up in the high chair patting her

old weave, a static frizz from polyester layers and traces

of fake human hair, a stench worse than expired weed.

Another woman is plastering her scalp with no-lye base

relaxer. Traces of color in her hair as she folds her face to

hide the discomfort caressing her scalp. A fake texturing

from her nappy black strands to a brunette via a chemical

bond. A natural woman fully transformed in a beauty shop;

from her hair follicles to her toe nails. A brand new female.

Damn! A man could even fall in love with his ex-girlfriend

and wouldn’t notice that it’s the same woman.

Her skin blended with layers and layers of moisturizer and

make up. A flawless touch hiding her wrinkles and blemishes.

The aura of artificial beauty tattooed on her skin. A strange

looking creature from outer space that isn’t aware about the

price of artificial beauty.

A natural woman that ages gracefully is a gem. A woman so

sublime. Embracing her beauty in its natural form.

For she understands the importance of keeping it natural.

Loving her skin and hair, appreciating her natural beauty.

©FloetryC 2015

haia haie haic

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Author: AfroetryC

I am an African woman and a mother to a precious little angel. I love to use the term "Afro-floetic Queen" mostly to describe my poetry and my roots. I love poetry...art, soul music and inspirational bits of knowledge to offer advice and counseling to those who need it. I can be very witty, straight forward but fun. Ha. ha... A colorful perception of the world - expressed in my poetry. I want to inspire people with my Poetry...give them hope, while also advising them. Life is a learning process and i am happy when one of my pieces directly affects or inspires one of my readers. Let's take a detour around experience, and let me fill your minds with sweet poetic juices.... Note: Just changed my user name from FloetryC to AfroetryC because the latter is more personal and describes my Spoken Word Poetry better.

2 thoughts on “Beauty Shop. (Literally speaking)”

  1. Hi, Flo,

    Reading this, I get the feeling you were actually sitting in this salon, writing down notes about what was happening at the time. 😀

    It’s quite visually engaging and well told. I say visually of course since any good writer knows that a great story isn’t told, it’s seen. And yours is chock full of action and imagery. Really nice!

    I’ve spent a lot of time in barber shops over the years, but I can’t say many beauty salons. So thank you for this exposition into the female dominated arena you so sensually depict here.

    I’ve always been more than a tad bit mystified why women go to such lengths to alter, re-invent, augment and/or at times entirely re-create their physical appearance. Of course, I understand the various motivations (much of it having to do with the fact we live in a male-dominated society–something tells me, if men weren’t men, women wouldn’t bother to go through half of what they go through to torture themselves so). But I myself have always preferred a woman’s natural attributes over what is fake. Despite how long a woman’s hair is, how radiant her nails appear, how tightly packed together her breasts are in her bra (which in and of itself can be a torturous deceit) or how full her collagen-filled lips are, knowing that what I’m admiring, kissing or embracing with my hands are actually what the woman in question was born with does so much more to impress or tantalize me. But then, I’m just one person and the world’s views aren’t based on my sensibilities.

    Like

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