He is magnificent.
Standing there in his white shirt and dark trousers, he takes slow, deliberate steps in a well-worn semi-circle.
His sharp scissors shape and clip, carefully clicking along to a favorite tune.
An eclectic mix of light and dark locks
heap on the floor,
a bushy witness to his art.
A favored comb is well-positioned in his back pocket, ready for its cameo, then placed back as the razor continues to hum. He finishes with the Asian man before me: neck freshly shaven and brushed, cologne dabbed, and, too soon, the smock is removed and shaken.
The black and white checkered floor is swept. He pivots from the polished chrome and black leather chair to announce,
Next…
It is gripping like a one-act play,
and I am the only woman in the theater.
He smiles and looks towards me, repeating the invitation.
I amble towards him, no longer confident of the lucidity of my whim, then purposefully plop myself down in his chair to stare dolefully at my reflection. He swings the chair around so I can no longer see and proceeds to work. It doesn’t take long.
After he finishes, he hands me a mirror. My neck is quite pale above the old hairline, and I sense sunburn in my future.
I am not sure why, but I pay him.
I suppose that I am star-struck. He is Barnum, and I am not.
He nods curtly as I am dismissed, and the regulars continue to file in.
The leather chair is still moist from my heat.
Corney Press 