Sonnet CCCXXXII

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.