10 April 2011

Rhyme nor Reason: Barber

When you grow up the son of a Marine, trips to the barber shop are rarely much fun...at least not to a wandering eye with dreams of feathered hair.   I remember sitting on a stack of phone books, a black plastic cape covering my body, the opening tight on my skinny neck.  Surrounded by a pungent cloud of aftershave and talcum powder, the barber (a retired Marine with the tattoos on his thick forearm to prove it) talked non-stop about football, a cigarette teetering on his lower lip, his voice loud over the whir of clippers as a steady rain of the thinnest brown splinters landed on my face, tangling in my eyelashes and covering the black plastic cape with my dashed dreams of long hair.

Now, if my wee wandering self had admired a fixture like this late 1800's beauty from that perch of stacked phone books, perhaps I wouldn't have dreaded those monthly haircuts quite as much.
From here.

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