Palliative Care Hair
A free verse poem celebrating Anne’s first visit to the hairdresser since the onset of her disease
Today, Anne’s scalp blooms again—
silver tufts bristle through the thaw of winter,
as if the dawn has stroked the frost from barren fields.
The salon chair rises to cradle her—
throne of gentle hands and quiet laughter—
mirrors reflecting not the past, but the promise
of soft crowns and the gentle wild of regrowth.
Each snip, each gentle stroke with the brush
restores what the mirror had quietly mourned;
every lock, a banner unfurled after siege.
The cape falls from her shoulders—
revealing not a patient, but a sovereign,
her roots woven with the memory of struggle,
her new hair a declaration:
I am here—dignified, daring, wholly Anne.
Your friend,
Robert
https://robertmcbrydeauthor.com/
