Beauty Nightmare

From where I sit,

up in my chair

atop this great mountain of combs;

I can see the world.

Ladies pluck and primp,

a knight's fantasy in wax strips.

Fake colors imprinted in their hair,

highlighting the skies with dark hues.

They fake a lark's song and cry beautiful.

Men check out and hit on queens of the combs,

tempting them with gifts.

Like an avalanche falling,

I watch a woman argue about her bangs,

which aren't very attractive anyway.

From atop my throne of Redkin,

the nauseating fumes rush in

over taking my sense of direction.

I am over thrown

with hair pin daggers

and curling iron ball and chains.

By those queens of cool and style.

At the bottom of the mountains

I can see the betrayal and lies.

As simple as a phone call can convince you,

book ahead and save.

Save yourself from the beauty nightmare.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

What is beautiful today, may not be so beautiful in ten years, let alone ten days.

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