Jemma Walsh
When I was 14, maybe 15, I worked in a hairdresser’s for the summer. It was a small local business and I liked the owner, Marie. I’d sweep the floor, wash hair, ask customers hairwasher questions about their holiday or weekend plans, not that I cared about their plans, who knows what I cared about, but chit chat was part of the gig. I soon discovered that working at the hairdresser’s meant wherever I went I noticed people’s hair. So many heads knockin’ about clearly in need of a trim, people who didn’t seem one dot bothered about the state of their do. And I’d picture them bettered by a spiral perm, or a side cut, a lick of blue or punk of purple and began to worry about Marie, what if she was at the same craic, out grocery shopping, or down the pub, if she was haunted by what she could see but not do or if what you love can be ruined by your own proximity. I remember one customer, Eugene, whose head was a joy to wash, a brilliantly perfect mound that slotted into the basin like a lost jigsaw piece.
Jemma Walsh is an Irish poet based in London. Her work has appeared in The Irish Times, berlin lit, The Interpreter’s House, Banshee, Moth Magazine, HOWL Magazine, Ink, Sweat & Tears, The Alchemy Spoon, The Stony Thursday Book, The Madrid Review and elsewhere. She was recently shortlisted in The Free Verse Prize.
andotherpoems.com 