Poem of the Unsoftened Man
Shuffling your feet, you stare at your hands.
Their callouses - their years their memory their pride.
This manicure, you’re told, will make you beautiful. Set things right. Clear the air between us.
"Don’t be handsome.” The voice rings. "You’re beautiful now. We’re all the same.
Can’t you see?”
‘Just a few tools’, you tell yourself.
A little scrub here. A strong rub there. You can do this. You’ve always risen to a challenge.
You picture the technician running her smug file under your nails. The dirt, the soil, the minerals, the labour all bleeding out. You look away. Your thoughts are wrong. So you’re told.
You were told to grow your nails so She could trim them nicely, make them "right”.
They are so long they make your stomach churn.
You stop looking at your hands. You stuff them in your pockets.
A woman walks up to the door of the salon. Your hands jump out. You can’t stop them. They’re on the handle. You see your nails. You check Her face. The door stays closed. Her fist wraps around its handle. She is gone. Your nails are not. You stare.
‘Who’s hands are those?’ You wonder as you see them in the reflection of the glass door. ‘What a fag.’ You think.
Who’s hands are those? As you stuff them in your pocket and feel lint crunch under their length. ‘Gross.’ You think.
The door floats shut silently, wafting obnoxious smells in your face. You wave your hand to dissipate them but you’re only taunting yourself. Those nails. Wagging at you like an air traffic controller, trying to bring you in for landing.
But the runway looks really, really small.
A bead of sweat on your temple. You don’t step out of the sun into the cool, controlled climate of the salon. You’re happy to sweat.
Another woman approaches. Your sweat has revived you. You open the door. She stares.
She looks at the flaking skin on your lips, chapped and ignored. She looks at the crow’s feet that burrow powerful ravines from the ocean of your eyes. She sees their darkness. You are unsoftened. Your smile gives you away. She glances, only briefly, at the caked mud on your boots, hoping you don’t track it inside. Hoping you don’t spread it into her world.
She stares. You think she must be staring at your nails. ‘I don’t blame you.’ You think.
Sighing, you carefully close the hydraulically controlled door. It doesn’t need your care. It has evolved.
You see your reflection in the closed glass door. You stare. What was she looking at? You can see only a man. Nothing else.
Another woman appears behind you.
You open the door.
She is offended.
She slaps your face.
You are shocked.
You want to slap her back.
The bead of sweat on your forehead falls onto your flannel shoulder and disappears.
No one saw it. Not even you.
You lift your nails to your teeth and bite. And bite. And bite.
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By EL