THE BARBER

One of many barbers in the shop on base.

The flat-top was the Air Force standard

Tight crop with a landing strip on top.

It made for a sharp looking crewman,

But not so sharp on a curly headed fat kid.

So Pop instructed Pirelo, just buzz it

And put six bits in his hand.

Italians shouldn’t be barbers, Pop said.

They talk too much with their hands.

Waving around scissors could put out an eye.

From where I sat, Pop was right.

Chairs lined the walls around the shop,

Mirrors reflecting back against each other

Pirelo said, imagine kid,

Infinity right in front of you.

When the base closed down

Pirelo and his brother got their own shop

And I wore my hair a little longer.

Pop complained it was less work for twice the money.

The day came when I outgrew Pirelo’s,

Started using a stylist for ten times the money.

Pirelo worked until he was sixty-nine

Then what he did was most remarkable.

Pirelo packed his barber tools in a case,

Put a folding chair in the trunk of his car,

Drove to shanty town under the railroad bridge

And started giving haircuts to homeless folk.

Pirelo talked a lot, waving his scissors around.

No one lost an eye and everyone got a free haircut.

In a news story about Pirelo one night.

They interviewed a homeless man, who said.

No one wants to touch a fellow like me

But Pirelo doesn’t mind and it feels good to be touched.