The awful thing is that beauty is mysterious as well as terrible.

—Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

“Bougie,” one of our children say

of her appointment at the spa.

Neither has read Dostoevsky

or Marx. They don’t know bourgeoisie,

proletariat, blue-collar.

I chauffeur her to the valet—

million miles from my old barber,

the one who’ll nick one ear and shave

off neck hairs I can never reach.

War’s on TV. His scissors-hand shakes

and so the riveted knife blades.

I’m not the first or last to bleed.

Waxed, relaxed, lavender—

she kisses, nuzzles me; it’s the fougère.