Rude Disturbance

One might logically imagine there
to exist a vast world apart between,
say, a factory floor and a hair
salon. Once, in an earlier Century
within the confines of yarn-spinning
factories the omnipresent din was
said to have been so persistently
mind-invasive that female workers
were driven stark, raving mad.

In a modern beauty salon, with
its high-tech decor, brilliant lighting,
white curtain music, technological,
electrical devices and female voices
in loud chat mode, the ensuing
clatter is acutely all-enveloping,
mind-distracting and, for those
unaccustomed to the ambiance, a
manifestation of rude disturbance.

Oblivious, the svelte young women
smiling ingratiatingly, offering
coffee, suavely enquiring of their
anxious clients which of the prevailing
styles they prefer these days, clacking
across the porcelain floor from
hairstyling station to cashier's desk,
noisome distraction sublimated.

Proceeding with services implacably,
none prepared to resort to the escapism
of mental collapse in a somewhat lunatic
societal convention. As once industry and
emerging technology paired with the
brutality of manufactory modes, the
present completes the cycle with vanity
urging toward another element of
sensory-destructive submission to utility,
borrowing from need to social whim.