The Barber

by Robert (Bob) Moore © 2015 I used to get my haircut, at the local RSL Gunther was the Barber, he knew my hair real well for 20 years he cut it, short back and sides or trim whenever my hair got too long, I went round to him The RSL grew bigger, not the special place we knew with a big hotel as part of it, dress regulations too no more for the working man, with blue tee shirt and thongs or even the old Digger, didn’t feel like he belonged It was now a money maker, not the place it had been when you’d always meet someone you knew, a place for working men They still had darts and pool of course, if you wanted a game but smoking banned, and count your beers, it just wasn’t the same now Gunther’s place was not as busy, as once it would have been they pushed his shop outside the doors, the entrance hardly seen one day he said he’d had enough, it was time for him to go another nail in the coffin, of the life I used to know to find another Barber, now that was quite a chore these places they all had “Hairdresser”, written on their door the women all talked kids and shops, and clothes that they’d seen there no sport, no racing, no latest tips, unless they were in your hair never had a woman cut my hair, or a man with streaks in his and the very first that did, I thought she took the pizz when she said, I don’t have a cutthroat, so I can’t shave your neck maybe your wife can do it, when you get home, like ‘eck as if I’d let my loving wife, get that close to my throat with a cutthroat razor, I’m not a silly goat I don’t think she would let it slip, she still loves me, although, it would be the last nail in the coffin, of the life I used to know.