My barber always nods and listens kindly,
although I say "Just neaten it" each time
-- surrendering myself to his hands blindly,
I watch my shrinking hairline tell the time.
My barber chatters gaily without pausing,
although he too must see that I've declined,
he too must know what all his cutting's causing
-- awareness of how little's left behind.
My barber holds a mirror up behind me,
I smile and nod, and tell him it looks great;
he winks, then makes a joke just to remind me
that once he too had hair upon his pate.