She arrives at the salon

For her concessionary

Weekly wash and set,

Carrying the walking stick

She tries to avoid using,

As if just for emergencies.

My neighbour of long standing,

I know she is eighty-one,

Her son told me so on her birthday,

A fortnight ago.

Yesterday she proudly told me

She is in her eighty-second year.

An amiable, kindly soul,

She recognises my voice.

“Hello dear,” she says in reply,

 As she sits at the end sink.

(Because that is where she normally sits

And our hairdresser, Vanessa

Doesn’t like to correct her.)

Handbag on her lap,

Produces a hand mirror

She squints into.

Does not seem to see

Her too-wide, too-deep lipstick,

Orange face against a white neck.

Impossibly chestnut hair.

Offered a magazine,

She gazes at it upside down.

I wonder should I turn it for her

But then Vanessa calls,

Curlers at the ready,

“The usual, is it, Mrs. Bond?”

“What, dear? Oh, no!” she says.

“I want it straightened today.”

Vanessa is astounded.

“Straightened, Mrs. Bond?

Are you sure?”

“Ooh, yes dear, straightened

And died ash blonde, if you can.”

Now she has an audience,

This is so out of character.

But she is beaming and definite.

“Yes.  Jack said it will suit me.”

Well, I don’t know who this Jack is,

Maybe he’s an audacious git,

Yet – I am inclined to agree,

And a part of me wants to re-apply

Her crimson lipstick…