Can anyone help to give me example of imagery and the writers message in 'Hairless' by Jo Shapcott?

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

one, a woman, hairless absolute, cleaning.

She

mopped the green floor, dusted bookshelves,

all

cloth and concentration, Queen of the moon.

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,

to let

the big win resonate in the little room.