Barbershop
July 17 2008


I want a shave
in a real barbershop,
men only.

The regulars, who always wait
leaning-back in stuffed green chairs;
shooting the breeze,
arguing.
Posters of hockey stars
tacked to the walls,
and faded bathing beauties
from 20 years ago.
There are worn-out magazines, same as before,
about sports
and wholesale hair product.
The chair is a piece of industrial art,
a throne of red naugahyde
and heavy gauge steel.
A radio plays constantly
top 40 tunes from our youth,
about lovers who drove too fast
and surfing dudes.
And the barber is always Italian
in a sharp white smock,
with “Luigi” or “Vincenzo” stitched above the pocket.

I feel the chair ratchet back
as my eyes drift shut.
Hot towels, the steam rising deliciously.
Then warm shaving cream
that smells of manly things,
and reminds me of my father.
Such unaccustomed luxury;
the attention
almost intimate.

The slapping sound
of honed steel on a worn leather strop,
then the feel of a straight steady blade
as it bristles across my face,
scraping clean
a strip of smooth pink skin.
The absolute trust
is a kind of surrender,
and I gratefully relent.

It ends with aftershave, an astringent splash;
when I am forced to return to the upright position,
descending back
to earth.





I wore a real pair of shoes for the occasion
in rich brown leather.
A perfect day for a shave,
as I flip two bits to the shoe-shine boy.