They willingly filed in as if I blatantly advertised my Pied Piper status. True, I was always open to shearing a plodding flock. But never on the Sabbath when I rested and fidgeted. Still, some would knock and peer through the empty glass and into the grayness beyond.
One by one, they came, sat, settled in, and never questioned or complained. They were smoke trapped in a mason jar. Doomed and mesmerizing, yes, but I did not have the luxury of watching them float and swirl eternally; the line was out the door.
So, one by one, my straight razor took them. Effortlessly.
Scalp,
After scalp,
After scalp.
The floor was piled high with their offerings. I drooled, the softness burying my thick-soled shoes.
It was beautiful.
How long were you a barber, I ask?
I ignore the interrogation.
Wouldn’t I like to know, I reflect.
Peering through the empty glass and into the grayness beyond.