He’s crafted hair for half a century,
so mine are pinpricks in a hairy sea.
He snips and combs, and strips away the old;
the excess falls like needles to my cloak.
They look like magnets, silver in the light;
at other angles, they are dark as night,
much blacker than the black that shields my clothes.
He starts to talk – on what he loves and loathes;
his loyal friends and customers all laugh.
His plans for after work, his coloured past –
these fill the place with laughter, joy, and mirth,
although there’s three of us (but soon a fourth).
He’s done with me at last. I smile and pay,
then turn back toward my mundane Saturday.