the hair cut

just an inch off the top
you'd tell the barber
as you sat in the chair.
a trim, you'd say, just a
trim. sure kid, he'd mumble,
dropping the sheet
around your skinny neck,
pinning it with his stubby
fingers,
his hands smelling of onions
and salami. he turned your head
from the top, like
a child's doll.
you watched your hair
float onto the striped
cape, onto the floor,
there was little you
could do. he might
cut your ear off with
a straight razor if
you moved. how would
you ever make a wave again,
ala elvis, with your little
black comb,
your life as you knew
it was over.
finally, after several
minutes he spun you around,
powdering your bristled
neck. tapping your
cheeks and ears with a blue
liquid from a bottle
he shook. how's that he'd
say looking into the wall
length mirror, his wide
smile exposing his gapped
teeth, proud
of what he had done,
ruining your summer.
how's that my boy. now
go get em.