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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The gentle lady was often observed by a little boy. She had hands with a magical touch coveted by many. In her left hand were strings of hair longing to be treated, and in her right hand was an iron comb of varying temperatures. The iron comb and human hands slowly stroked the hairs of her clientele. But she was accompanied with a most listening ear to hear the heart cries of those who sat in her 'beauty chair'. Hers was a heart of gold with a very special place, a compartment, for the storage and processing of the many secrets that she was told. She had plenty enough cares of her own because hers was a family of many kids and often a most insensitive husband twenty- two years her senior. Nevertheless, out of what at times was a war zone, a house of chaos, she crafted a happy home. Her lips, through which never a harmful word would be revealed, were always sealed. A breath of fresh air and soothing like a gentle breeze that slowly flowed through the open sky, this beautician cared for far more than hair. Her home was an open door, and many were the burdens of others that she so willingly bore. So loving and caring, she was gifted with an eye for beauty that looked deep into the souls of her customers. It was there that she beheld so much of their misery and ugliness with a carefulness for withholding judgment. They came with high hopes of a great hairdo which they received but also left with a makeover of their troubled souls, because they were touched by the crafty hands and loving heart of a little boy's mother who was a beautician I once knew. 08282018PoSoupCtest, Strand Select V, Brian Strand. 3P
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