the old men
needing shaves, and trims
around their ears,
their noses
and eyebrows,
asleep with their hats
on, waiting
their turn.
the long wall of mirrors.
the enormous vinyl
chairs
that spun around,
with razor straps attached,
the shelf
with old magazines,
Hunting and Fishing,
Motor Trend,
and Bikini Girls,
the water
cooler gurgling
in the corner with
paper cone cups.
i miss the blue jars
full of combs and brushes,
scissors
getting disinfected
before the next
customer.
i miss Ernie,
my barber and his onion
breath,
his garlic and cigarettes
still
in his hands,
in the creases of
his thick sausage
fingers.
i miss how he massaged
my freshly
shaved neck,
then doused me
with a cloud of talcum powder
and aqua velvet.
i miss
him telling me how handsome
i looked,
how all the girls in school
must love me.
i miss how he'd unwrap
the oversized apron,
striped blue,
and white,
and snap the clippings
onto the floor,
and how he'd spin me around
at the end to ask me
what i thought.
was everything okay?
of course it was.
the part on the side,
the Bryl creme making
my wave stand up,
like Ricky Nelson, giving
the new cut
a shine.
was a quarter or two tip
for all he did
ever close to being fair?
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