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Miss Snipsnap


by Reva Zerkalo


Hair spirals from Miss Snipsnap's head,

dizzy corkscrew ringlets

glinting blizzard-whites to molten-golds;

a spectrum of chemical colour under fluorescent light.

Synthesized Satie tiptoes from corners. I glimpse

pornography in Miss Snipsnap's sullen roots.

 

‘Would you like to slip this on, sir?'

Unisex salon wench swishes a slinky

protective covering as a candy-pink

tongue-tip flickers over glissgloss

lips, slickly serpentine.

 

Clips and scissors jangle and jostle

as she ushers me into the cloak.

Breasts burnish my goose bumps,

nudging through Miss Snipsnap's

menstrual-red tee-shirt-ette

and I wonder whether she's

perfectly plastic or plastically perfect.

Ammoniac vapours blur my fears

as I sneak a peek at her navel

in search of a blow-up valve.

 

Miss Snipsnap escorts me

to a suicide-yellow leatherette swivel chair

which sighs

as I collapse my trembling limbs.

She interrogates my hair

with impossibly long, abused-purple nails.

Pivoting round, I shoot glances

at chitchattering coiffeuses

who pirouette around clientele

in covert choreography with the muzak.

 

A comb surfs my tempestuous waves,

tugging at tangles as I try not to be

ensnared in that oval glassy glare.

Miss Snipsnap looks in the mirror at me

not looking at myself in the mirror...

‘What is it you have in mind, sir?'

Looking at her, looking in the mirror, chewing gum.

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