This morning, the Bengali teaboy said I didn’t look like me today.
If I didn’t know myself any better, I would have reacted rather strongly.
But to ruin my crisp white linen shirt and signature pants seemed incogitable.
In a place veiled by the sandstorm of a storied culture timeline, any change in outward countenance, no matter how faintly disguised, is held suspect.
All social clues and contexts and their overriding narrative arc must fall within the normative constraints of a male-dominated society.
Indeed what a strangely transporting commentary the office hireling had expressed.
Suddenly the workplace seemed all too foreign to me.
Is this the place I dreamed of honing my skills set in?
Is that a telephone?
Is this me sitting in my office chair?
Could poetry be the worst makeover artist of all?
I have yet to validate this hasty assumption, but let me begin by saying that poetry at the very least is an excellent haircare product.
I have been using it from the time I learned how, and it really hasn’t been that long.
Other things people might have noticed since I started shampooing my hair with poetry include:
Whereas before I religiously shaved to effect a desirably clean corporate cut, I now let my Vandyke beard grow unattended.
Whereas before I sported a slick-back hairdo, I am now setting my ringlets free.
Whereas before I smelled of cologne and perfume, I now sport a natural earthy musk with hints of forest after a wildfire.
© 2011 Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr., Co-editor, Spiracle
1 comment:
As I began to read this stunning piece, the image of Gregor in Kafka's Metamorphosis came to mind -- someone surely not looking at all like himself. But this image was short-lived, as I was pulled into an entirely different scene and culture -- a glorious word picture with musical chords and layered fragrances. The idea of shampooing one's hair with poetry is inspired and inspires me to allow my own imagination freer reign.
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