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Poem

Sun-faded cardboard photographs
of 1970’s hairstyles
were tacked to 
the brown paneled walls.
His counter was cluttered with 
the shiny tools of his trade,
a chipped glass bowl
laden with lollypops,
and a jar of combs 
in blue liquid.
National Geographic,
Sports Illustrated, 
and Life
were spread out 
like Chinese fans
on the coffee table.
On the shelf,
above the coat hooks with
forgotten umbrellas
and orphaned scarves,
and smelling faintly of cigarettes
and of mystery,
lay a stack of  glossy Playboys.
I was tall enough,
but not brave enough,
and that brass ring 
was never grabbed.
I sat in Gino’s cold 
metal and pleather chair
and thought about 
warm flesh and silky hair.
I pictured a model 
on a bearskin rug
in front of a crackling fire,
clutching a champagne flute,
or a long-stemmed rose, 
or another pointless prop. 
Images cavorted as 
Gino’s quick hands
floated around 
my teenaged head 
and his silver 
and snipping scissors
danced the Barber’s Waltz.
Comb, snip, snip
comb, snip, snip.
Puckered red lips
blew kisses and
high heels clicked 
through my head
between clouds of talcum
and splashes of hair tonic.

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