“A most impossible shade of blue.”
Grooming. In verse.
Late for my appointment, again.
The usual reason.
Men talk. Barbers cut. The shop is alive.
Over the top of my magazine,
I spot the jar.
A most impossible shade of blue.
What exactly does it do?
“It can clean anything,” my man says. I’m sitting in the chair now. His scissors move.
“Sure. Combs. Scissors…”
His clippers clip.
“But what about my conscience?”
“I ain’t no priest,” he laughs.
He’s finished and dips his shears into that same blue. Everything goes into the blue.
I stand up. Tip the man. The shop is silent. Everyone’s gone home.
My fingers trace my scalp.
As I duck into the gray cold I think:
‘A good haircut
is like a clean slate.’
And hop off into the night.