This poem is called 'Hairless' and it celebrates being bald.
Can the bald lie? The nature of the skin says not:
it’s newborn-pale, erection-tender stuff,
every thought visible, – pure knowledge,
mind in action – shining through the skull.
I saw a woman, hairless absolute, cleaning.
She mopped the green floor, dusted bokshelves,
all cloth and concentration, Queen of the room.
You can tell, with the bald, that the air
speaks to them differently, touches their heads
with exquisite expression. As she danced
her laundry dance with the motes, everything
she ever knew skittered under her scalp.
It was clear just from the texture of her head,
she was about to raise her arms to the sky;
I covered my ears as she prepared to sing, roar.
Unpublished, used by permission of the author, copyright Jo Shapcott 2006