Humbled Beauty

I saw a French Poodle whose hair looked better than mine.

She knew it too, the haughty way she walked passed me, with her nose in the air.

“What did ya say there, Babette?”

I said, “Perhaps you should see a groomer, you can use my name.”

Don’t think I wouldn’t at this point either since, I have no idea who it is, looking back at me in the mirror.

Oh hello, and you are? Will you be staying long?

Unlike my pal Skinny, I don’t have an in-house hairdresser to squirt color on my head that’s beginning to look like the Alps, after a thaw…wisps of white peeking over my ears.

My only solace is, I’m not alone.

I have visions of women camping out in sleeping bags the night before all the hair salons reopen, like buying tickets for a Springsteen concert.

And don’t think I won’t be one of them, with cookies, to get seen faster.

Maybe I should see a groomer.

She’s lucky I didn’t pull her tail.  

SB