Getting a Hair Cut
As a small boy
the barber would sit me
on a wooden bench
placed across the armrests
of his chair.
Mirrors in front and behind
imprisoned countless copies
of me stretched out
as far as I could see.
There were no doors
in those other worlds
to escape.
I didn’t want to be there.
Trapped in a cloak, a paper
noose tight around my neck,
I would sit immobilised
by a welling fear pressurizing
to a scream held stoppered
in my throat. The flashing
jaws of scissors chattered
incessantly around my head,
sharp bites sending showers
of hair flying about my face.
I kept my eyes tightly shut.
Arrayed in sizes on a table,
clippers were lined up
like instruments of torture.
Back then fingers powered
their menacing blades.
I would freeze when one began
to crawl my neck and nibble
the soft skin behind my ears.
An impatient hand would sometimes
pull away too quick
and catch uncut hair in teeth
yanking it out in a patch of pain.
I would give a stiffled yelp
which always went ignored.
I thought barbers took pleasure
in the hurried over pain
of boys.
The drag of a razor
to clean up the last
recalcitrant stubble from
a short back and sides
unleashed a dread
that his hand would slip.
I saw myself flooding
the floor in blood.
The sting of cologne
sprayed on raw skin
signaled the end.
Released, I would slink away
from the chair as if diminished.
Something of me had been taken.
A cold would rush to claim
my neck where before hair
grew thick. I felt vulnerable,
exposed, stripped of what
had helped to protect
and cover me up. Now,
I cut my own hair
and grow it longer.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2022
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