Dalton Rooney

It’s a Barbershop, Not a Salon

Secretaries with fake personalities
weaken my mood.
The products in the air taste
bitter, sticking to your tongue
just like hair.
The chairs are covered in thick plastic
and a poster hangs on the wall,
with pictures of haircuts dating back
to my grandfathers time and age.

What I want from my barber
isn’t anything out of the ordinary.
But I have no faith in him.
Just give me a haircut that
accommodates my generation.
I try to explain,
but he’s just so old.
I look in the mirror,
and that piece of shit is staring right me
asking how do ya like it?
I lie and say it’s perfect,
it looks great, thank you.

My barber’s blade is rusty, just like his style.
Gripping my forehead, he pulls the
razor across my throat.
I hear it pop, my head relaxes over the headrest,
blood saturating my shirt.
I don’t like my haircut,
but I’ll survive.
I tell the secretary
that the tip is included in the check.