Sometimes when I am getting

a haircut,

the stylist will push my wet hair back,

      baring my forehead.

And I sit there, staring blankly

              past the mirror

at my father in the chair,

and I am a little boy, watching

the starched white barber solemnly cut my father's

wavy black hair, pushed
back over his forehead,

and the shop smells good, from the green hair

stuff they put on,

and he looks so fresh and clean, young and

 handsome really,

and he takes my little hand

      as we leave the shop,

so long ago, even in
                     mirror time.

October 1985

All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
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