the pressure of life

the barber
would be waiting in the chair
that i'd
sit in. not my usual
barber alfredo, but
don from Greece.
he'd be smoking a cigar,
the morning paper
stretched out between
his thick hairy arms.
it's 1965.
i had a lot of hair back
then. trim, he'd ask.
short in
the back? a little off
the top? where's your mother
he'd ask.
I don't know I tell him.
but give me the usual,
like alfredo does. okay,
he'd say and wrap the cape
around my skinny neck,
pinning it at the collar.
we're gonna make you handsome,
he'd say.
all the girls
are gonna love you.
but i'm only ten, i'd tell
him
feeling the pressure of
life upon me.