THE BARBER

The men who come and sit in my chair never ask what I do with their hair.Why would they?And why would they care what I do with their hair?There’s no need to share, reveal the thrill that’s laid bare.That’s between me and their hair.When the bell over theMy own bell begins to tingle.Today, it’s Justin — tall, lean, pretty Justin with his well-toned biceps.He comes with unwashed hair and five-day scruff that’s thick and lush.He could wash his own hair. He could shave his own face.They all could. But they leave it for me. It’s the way I want it.Perhaps a few have sensed my bond with hair.Appreciated, speculated, even celebratedThe secret that I keep.Justin knows the routine.He sits in my chair, watches me stare at his hair through the mirror.When our eyes meet, I give him my best naughty smile.We are alone. It is the end of the day.I can’t resist licking my lips.“Shall we begin?” I ask, though it’s not really a question.Justin nods. There’s little need for talk.