avatarMicah Josiah

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Poetry

The Barbershop

Something like haircut alchemy

Photo by Charlie Solorzano on Unsplash

A man plays against himself, determined to hit the eight ball into the corner pocket without scratching. He hits the cue ball at just the right angle, after several attempts he yields to the distilled advice of an observant barber coaching above a half-shaven head.

Along the wall, two children sit across each other; the boy mahogany, the girl concealed in a pink puffy coat. Between them are chess pieces; one side brown, like the hands that move them, the other side cream, like the underside — palms.

Above the checkered floor, a boy hovers, suspended by the slim steel stem beneath the barber-chair, draped in a reverse cape adorned with Spider-Man, his barber honoring each strand of kinky black hair, lining edges into precise dimensions only experienced hands could invent;

his image reflected in the mirror and across the room in a similar chair, where my son sits, raised high held in the gaze of concentrated eyes that see what is yet to be seen, transforming crowns of hair into crowns of gold making young boys feel like kings; it’s almost supernatural the way they do this thing — something like haircut alchemy.

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