A Haircut,
I say.
The Hostess,
too old for her makeup,
says there will be
a five minute wait.
The Owner,
balding,
reads headlines
and sips espresso.
Scissor sports talk,
Big band aftershave.
The New Girl,
with hand on hip,
bops her shoulder
to the ba-da bap,
for attention.
The Pro,
seats high rollers
on a crimson throne;
the far end of the shop.
The Barber,
Julio,
says little past,
How do you want it?
Facing me away
from the mirror,
Julio begins.
I trust he knows
what is good.
Shaping appearance,
I must have faith.
I do not know
Julio’s tools.
I cannot see
as he does.
I was so self-sufficient.
A little more off of the top,
I say.
