Barbershop

It’s my turn.
I put down last December’s
Popular Mechanics and pull
onto the raised seat. He drapes
me with the apron. Matlock
plays soundlessly on the overhead TV.

The usual?
I nod.

I feel the warm purr of cutters,
breathe the familiar smells
of hair and grease.
Today isn’t the normal banter,
none of his old jokes
about road construction or niggers.
I’m leaving home, for college.
It’s my last haircut I tell him.

I stare at the tufts that jut
from his ears. He nods,
silent.

He doesn’t ask about school,
the Bears, the new make of Chevy truck,
our back and forth that usually flows
as regular as clipper trails. Instead,

he straightens my hairline with scissors,
carefully eyeing it level, brushing
slowly after each snip. Finally,
with a sigh, he pulls off the apron,
letting my hairs fall to the floor where they may.