It's a Really Great Salon

The 20-year-old seated near me at the salon
is telling her stylist that she hates her cropped hair
and needs a new look.
She wrinkles her nose and complains:
"I have the haircut of, like,
a 40-year-old."

I try to hide my reaction,
but surely my widened eyes reveal that
I am 40.

Beastly.

Despised.

When her stylist nods knowingly
and returns a deeply sympathetic look,
my fury rises.
I say to Kelsey behind me,
"Pause, please."
The black cape shifts awkwardly as I stand;
I swivel it behind me.

Smoke billows softly at my ankles,

filling the air.
I place both fists at my hips

and inhale.

"Budding ninny!

How little you know 

of the 40-Year-Old.

We are not as ancient as we appear.

The fine lines that trace 

our eyes and necks

misrepresent the youth of our hearts.
The athleisure also jests

as it squeezes and smooths,
for we have worthy pursuits 

and consequential lives!
The paunch you see before you

is not a sign of sloth,

but a life-giving orb of honor.
I resent your sneer and disgust.
Alas! What is wrong with the hair
of the 40-year-old? 

Too short?
Too convenient?
Well, if short and convenient is wrong,
then I don't want to be right!"

They stare at me,
disturbed.

By now the smoke has settled,

so I remove my cape
and turn to leave the salon.
Kelsey is not finished with my haircut,
but it doesn't matter.
Who cares?
It is, after all,
the hair of 

a 40-year-old.

Opening the door I call out,
maturely,
"Beast OUT!"
I click the unlock button
on my Toyota Sienna key fob,
anxious to turn on some Jewel
as I drive to Costco.

I'm sensitive,
and I'd like to stay that way.