Waiting for my turn in the barbers shop I sit here with a heap of newspapers .Film songs on the wall danced on funny torsos. A guy is having his head shorn and a chin with a brushwood of two days. Chin makes small talk. I have to wait for it to vacate the chair.
The barber will cover me in his white shroud. He will make me fidget like a corpse. His indecent stomach will rub my fidgeting insides. My hair is summer bush to fall off in silver clusters on the white cloth.
The barber’s fingers are dancing on the brushwood head. The head closes its eyes in pleasure. Its hair is strewn all over the marble floor like knots of darkness.