Barbershop

He really wanted to be good.
Someone who left an impression
That would last longer
Than the haircut he would give.
Yet there was something else
Inside him
A festering corner in his mind,
A place to hide from the discomfort
Of progress,
He found himself deeply fearful
Of artificially receding someone’s hairline
Or, God forbid, disfiguring a little boy’s head
With his clippers,
Every morning as the first person walked in
He would pray a prayer
Not for strength
But that they would not sit in his chair.
Yet he knew that there was no other way,
No other path to the person he wanted to be,
Than down the path he feared most.
Strange, this simultaneous deep love for hair
And palpable fear of touching it.
So, at war with himself,
He died a thousand deaths
To perfect his craft,
And more than once his fears came true
When he messed up and
Seemingly proved his inner critic right,
Neutralizing in his mind
Any victories he had won up until that point,
Some days his own hands would surprise him
And he would for a moment
Feel the bubbling rush
Of being good at something
And slowly, brush after brush
He uncovered his own rhythm
His own version of his story
Where he no longer expected so little from himself,
And after many days
That voice of doubt seemed to fade
In comparison to his own steady record
Of showing up.
His love for hair
Had been tested
And somehow the trials had made
Him even more certain of his place
In the barbershop.

Advertisement