Feathers fall, down drops
in the bite, the crisp clink
of scissors, snipping at the damp shag.
Hair, caught in the comb’s cold teethe,
makes a mounting heap on the floor
that the barber scuffs through.
And something else is littering there:
a familiar face, shrugged off now
like a snake’s old skin, unwanted.
Suspense builds while the barber keeps the chair
turned away from the mirror
as my hopes of what I am becoming
reaches for the way I see myself –
inevitably though sliding back
to what I’ve always been –
the self I cannot shake loose
With any trimming.
Haircut
