Saturday Morning Haircut

I hated the iron stool, the black barber's drape,

And especially the buzzing, vibrating clippers

Who seemed to take great delight

Irritating the back of my scalp

Every Saturday morning.

The bare and cold black iron stool

Whined quietly with me,

But after a thousand hours

The hard, flat, iron, stool bit

The bones in my butt.

Dad's voice frowned, “Stay still.”

The clippers were mean,

Laughing at my miserly.

They sent electric charges

All the way down my back,

Down to my right thigh,

Making it want to wiggle off the stool.

Dad's voice smacked my ears, “Stay still!”

I was imprisoned on that iron witness stand,

With a black barber's drape

Covering every part of me,

From my top of my neck down

To the soles of my shoes.

I wished he had gone to work,

On his mailman route,

Delivering bills, and birthday cards.

Instead of making sure

Every single, tiny hair on my head

Was exactly the appropriate length.

I wished that he had never

Gone to barber school.

After the whole morning lay wasted

Along with my hair, on the floor,

My dad would take his silky, soft brush,

And whisk what little hair was left

Off my face, my neck, and the drape.

I wanted to go play,

To get away from the iron stool,

from the clippers.

But no!

“Sweep up the hair and put the stool away.

Before you go out to play.”

Dad oiled his clippers,

Cleaned his brush,

Shook out his black barbers drape,

And folded it like he was still in the Navy.

The wind teased and licked

The back of my freshly shorn head

While I swept up my own hair

From around the cold black iron stool

Every Saturday morning.