It’s uncomfortable at first,
having him stare, seemingly
enraptured, through the sliding
glass door, witness to my grooming
as my friend snips at the gray.
But come to think of it, I myself
have been known to stand 
at hair salon windows & take in
the show, the stylists like sculptors
chiseling away at blocks of marble.
So why shouldn’t this shaggy old mutt
be allowed to appreciate Laverne’s
consummate artistry, her hands
still quick & nimble after all these years
of making me look almost good?
Maybe he yearns for her touch,
imagines her fingers flitting
through his tangled fur, taming
& trimming that unruly thicket,
the years falling to the floor.