GERARDO

is my barber now,
though he'd cringe
at that blasphemous label;
a "barber" is an "Anthony,"
or "Tony," or "Mr. Tony,"
a "John," or "Pete," who
for a buck and a quarter,
took an electric shaver,
dull pair of scissors
and comb and worked his way
through the overgrown landscape
of your skull. You sat upright,
staring into the mirror watching
your locks fall to the floor
joining the graveyard of colors there already.
Afterwards, he slapped
some Witch Hazel on your neck, raw
from the shaver's red & rusted use,
threw some baby powder around, &,
if needed, pomade on what remained
of your scalp. There was always a sign
in their shop: If You Leave,
You Lose Your Place. Nobody
moved a muscle, ever.

Gerardo is my "stylist." And Gerardo
is beautiful: slender as a reed,
Peruvian, young, gay, musical.
Dancing with a pair of scissors,
wearing a chiffon skirt
above tight black jeans,
he's a delicate filigree weaving
his way, snipping here, measuring
there, balancing as he moves
his hands to the rhythms inside
his skin & my cranium, in his silk black shirt,
eyeliner, rouged cheeks, wearing
a rakish fedora tilted rogue
with mystery and menace
on top of his head.

From what is my slumped
& slouched posture, I love
to watch him work: a gunslinger
with silver scissors
bringing a spent soul
back to recognition.
You know, he says to me,
you look better
than last time.
You're full of shit, I reply.
No, no, you do, I mean it.
Gerardo takes my hand
& leads me back to a sink
where he shampoos my head
again. His fingers press
upon my skull & neck & shoulders
pressure...which releases pressure
and fifty years of the sublime
& the hideous.

I pay the buck twenty five
to the "hostess," but Gerardo
refuses my tip
each time I offer
to now when it's just a formality.
I would like my hair
to grow faster
while my years
ease up.
But that
is not
how it works,
and how it works
still escapes me.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019