The Philosopher Barber

7:30 am.
Saturday.
I am sitting in the chair. Draped in black.
I’ve come to see Jake.
Jake is a philosopher, a common mystic. A barber.
And so it begins. The small talk of work and play, of babies and beards and passports
We dissect the latest book read, movies seen. Share them around.
And the talk sinks lower, funnels deeper.
About expectations and resolutions and life’s workings having a mind of their own.
Fascades turn translucent. Little windows in the walls of our lives open and we look inside. Invited.
And all this comes in the fluid of soothing conversation, in the rhythm of scissors and razor and comb. Hypnotic. A womb of words and thoughts. Conception comes in the place that follicles evacuate, jumping to the floor, headless of death to be swept and bagged and reduced to trash.
I close my eyes and press my lips, the final precaution against ingestion and inhalation.
Then the final acts and final words shape the growth about my skull.
And he pulls off the black like a magician whips away the cloth to reveal his magic.

He gives me a discount. I increase his tip.
For I feel fuller inside.
It’s about more than hair.
And I am done.
For now.