the haircut

you don't need
a barber
any more
but you go
just the same.
you sit in the high
leather chair
that swings easily
around to see
your thinning
hair, your
aging face, your
shoulders
beneath
the white, pin
striped cape.
it's what men do.
they say nothing
to one another
that isn't already
known.
they nod, the barber
turns your face
with thick fingers
to the side
for the razor,
leans you forward
for the comb.
there is the gentle
slap
of cologne upon
your cheeks and neck,
the dusting
of powder, the
spin once more around
for your approval.
it's fine, you
say. it's fine, then
the cape removed
and payment made.