Barber Shop

When I was a mere lad, my Dad always cut my hair, But as I reached my teens and became much more debonair, To the bald-headed barber I whizzed in my old hometown, Seated myself in his chair and plopped my quarter down! I had never been a paying client at a barber shop before, So I asked about that red, white and blue pole spinning by the door. Said he, "It was a sign for barbers doing surgery in the olden day!" At that I gulped, almost choked and turned a sickly gray! Done with my hair, he'd shave my neck and brush on lots of powder, And liberally douse my scalp with Vitalis - I couldn't have been prouder! His shop reeked of pungent oils and stale tobacco smoke, It was all I could do to sit there, trying to stifle a choke! The town barber shop was a place to gossip and hear inane babble, And was the local hangout for ne'er-do-wells and other idle rabble. The risque banter invading my naive and delicate ears, Gave me an education far beyond my tender years! The tales I heard were of the local women, booze and such. Though I had some inkling, I didn't understand all that much! Had my dear devout Mother known what transpired there, I suspect she would've insisted that Dad continue to clip my hair! Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired © All Rights Reserved