First Haircut
Nov 24 2014


The old-fashioned barber chair
was cherry-red naugahyde
and brightly polished chrome.
An over-stuffed throne, men-only,
in a plain-walled sanctorum
ornamented wholly
by fancy bottles.

By bracing astringents, and manly cologne
medicinal shampoo, fragrant emollients.
Straight razors, and leather strops,
a swirl of foam
steaming hot.
Black combs, in blue disinfectant
on the shelf above the sink,
along with sleekly sculpted implements
in surgical steel.
And the cleansing scent

of menthol after-shave,
slapped-on
in a ritual end.

Comfortable men, in unmatched chairs,

chatting, smoking
cracking jokes.
There was a pedestal ashtray, overflowing with butts
and a scuffed table, eternally covered
with last week's papers
well-thumbed sports.

Men's journals, and the wholesome sort

of pin-up mags,
winking coyly, like the girl-next-door.

Where a little boy

with curly blonde hair
perched on a red naugahyde wedge

that was tucked into the chair,

ratcheting-up

on its gun-metal lever,

spinning on well-oiled gears.

But my memory of my first haircut

is less this
than a still image, tinged with fear --
a strange-smelling man
in a tight jacket,
flashing scissors
in meat-mitten hands.

And room-length mirrors, front and back
with the repeating image of me
receding at the speed of light.
As if an infinity
had somehow opened-up
behind this wall of glass.
As if I were falling, falling,
and this small room
unaccountably bottomless.

Children are exquisitely receptive
to the inexplicable,
magic accompanies the day-to-day.
But still, I had never considered
that solid objects might be permeable,
surfaces
not to be trusted.

That there were mysteries to be plumbed.

That you could get under the skin's

tender cover.

That you could dive-in

break the glint of light.

Like the still water

above Atlantis.

Like a leap of faith

into silvered glass.

It was while writing my last poem -- The Invention of Glass -- that I recalled my first time experiencing this common but unsettling phenomenon: the recursive image created by opposing mirrors. It's part of my vague memory of my first haircut -- along with the natural fear of a strange man wielding sharp objects! (And yes --believe it or not -- I once did have curly blonde hair!)

So this poem gave me the chance to do two things: to not only write about that glimpse into infinity, that illusion of falling; but also to luxuriate in sensuous detail about a rite of passage in a past world. Because the old-fashioned men's barbershop is an anachronism these days; replaced by sleek barber chairs and unisex salons and fancy decor. Even the men's magazines are different: more explicit porn than the sweet corn-fed girl-next-door. (Or so I've been told!)

Although poetry is supposed to be about compression and distillation, I like the way this poem slows down, indulging in elaborate description and the telling detail. Not not does it revel in the material world, taking delight in stuff; it also tries to push just far enough to become a parody of masculinity -- or at least its pose.

And I like the metaphor of physical surface and metaphysical depth. I was thinking in particular of the unknowability of "the other": there is the surface people present; and then the inner life we can only guess at.

I've said many times that I write a poem, and then move on: as soon as I start the next one, the last is gone. So my uncertain memory isn't surprising; but I strongly suspect I've already written this poem. Or something very much like it. I'll have to delve into the archives to check. But I'm fine with revisiting a subject. Another chance to get it right! And also a good gauge of my progress. Am I getting better at this business of poetry? Or is it time to give it up and move on to something new?

(A final pedantic note: you won't find "sanctorum" in the dictionary (or at least I didn't in mine, when I checked). But you will if you look under sanctum sanctorum, which is defined as the "holiest of holies". My understanding of this term comes from Judaism, in which it refers to the inner sanctum of the great Temple in Jerusalem where the Torah was kept. I took advantage of poetic license, and shortened it.)