“Haircut"
What’s my fear in the cutting of hair?
Maybe I think I am, in a way, losing a part of myself?
It’s only hair. It’ll grow back.
I hope death is like this haircut.
I hope this haircut is like death.
Not the end, just a new start.
She sits me down, that nice lady.
I’ve known her for years.
For years I’ve trusted her.
I still trust her.
She talks a good deal.
I listen a good deal less.
I should listen more.
I cannot focus on her half-baked life advice.
I have not looked at my own reflection for this long in some time.
It’s unsettling in a way that makes a man quiet.
My attention is brought back by a murmur.
She is unsure of her work.
She doubts herself.
She retired for a year and change, you know.
She’s back now though.
Anyway I want to tell her it doesn’t matter.
That I don’t care.
But there’s no way to say that
without her thinking I’m taking pity.
But the truth is I don’t care.
By the time she removes the chair cloth
I recognize that we are done and, more importantly,
I didn’t ask her a thing about her life.
She’s getting older these days.
Well, we all are I suppose.
I hope she doesn’t think me rude.
Honestly, I hope she doesn’t think of me at all.
At least until we meet again.
I tip. I leave,
not before exchanging pleasantries.
I think this haircut could do quite well,
for someone who isn’t me.
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