an inch or two
more
off the top
you tell the barber
as he spins you
in the big leather
chair
holding your skinny
legs
your weightless frame.
he clips away
as you stare into the wall
length mirror.
the striped
pole spinning slowly
beside the blue
jars filled with
combs and scissors,
the feathered hair
floating across the black
and white tiled
floor. how many years
has it been
since the child came
in with two dollars
and sat,
saying always just a little
more of the sides,
off the top.
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