It's easy to imagine ef arranging her affairs in Transylvania
to rediscover the clan's buried lineage: furriers of human
hair, voluptuous tresses of princesses displayed to ensnare
roaming princes. Red hair they say was magical, hypnotic.
Thence, to engage an acronym specialist for pithy corporate
logos to sell the hair razored from near-bald skulls, now clogging
sewers in western metros, along with venerable webs of
leg and pubic and underarm and eyebrow plucks, chin
stubble by the quadzillions -- hair never dies you know, nor
teeth decay after food stops smearing them with acids.
Early automobile seats were packed with horsehair when
that effluvia was bountiful. Will bicycle racers now squirm
on saddles padded with the riders own sheddings, as
sharkskin swimmers suits are made of those sleek bodies'
shaven shorns.
I can see ef gathering mountains of hair, Hapsburgian,
perhaps comingled from descendant princesses and princes
for decades and decades holed up high up in forests, unshaven,
bearish, fecund, never shampooed, about as pure as can be
found west of Tibet, for constructing svelte cornrow fur-pieces
for cold winter couture coverup of armpits, genitals, chins, brows,
freezing brain pans.
Many shades of red, auburn, orange, scarlet muffs.
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