~ Delta Poetry Review ~

Sam Barbee

Leave the Ears

Manhattan Barber Shop, 1961

A red & white striped pole

rotates on the brick façade

inviting us in—a peppermint promise

for a seven-year-old boy’s first visit.

A bell dings as we open the door.

Incandescent bulbs sway.

My dad and I stretch overstuffed springs

of Mid-century modern chairs.

Paneled wall of barber’s portraits—

all when younger. An Honorable Discharge

in a thin black frame. Big mirrors

and posters of glamor girls in convertibles.

An oversized photograph of haircut styles:

The Slick Back, Flop, Pompadour.

Mother had no skill for these.

Last week,

                  Dad announced, It’s time. . . .

Hey, Red, that your boy?

                                         Yep, Dad nodded.

The rotund barber motions me up

to a red leather chair trimmed

with chrome-baked mesh. He bridges

ornate armrests with a stuffed plank and pats it.

Have a seat sonny-boy.

                                       I shuffle through

tufts and curls of hair and climb up

for the ceremony. He pumps the silver handle

elevating me. He pops a white cape and drapes

my small shoulders. Collars my neck

with a thin tissue. My PF Flyers

dangle above the footrest.

Trim him up like mine,

                                     dad says,

                                                     perched

in a barber chair beside me for his usual Taper.

Everything done behind my back until the barber

twirls the chair toward the wall of mirrors,

bottles, and cotton balls. A glass canister

of blue liquid soaks combs like lab samples.

The barber sets the chair brake, then clasps

a pearl-handled straight razor.

                                                  Want me

to leave the ears? I nodded, eyes wide.

                                                                 Now you

can’t be a-wigglin’ in the chair. Might nick ya.

I stare at Dad,

                         Just be still. . . .

The barber smears warm lather on my neck,

snaps open the razor’s spine. The edge catches

light and gleams. His fat hand crowns my head.

and swipes angel hair from my neck.

Then around ears—me rigid,

yet somehow trembling.

He nestles my head in a warm towel

and wipes me clean. A splash of tonic stings.

Whisk of talc chokes. He hands me a red lollypop.

All there is to it, young man.

                                              Hop down.

                                                                 Next.

Licking my candy, I watch the barber circle dad

seated majestic, and snatch a bottle of lime-green liquid

to douse his customer’s neck. Then dabs on gel

making dad’s auburn hair gleam. We exit—

the same ding – both trimmed and tonic-ed

to induce any mother or wife to swoon.

Sam Barbee has a new collection, Apertures of Voluptuous Force (2022, Redhawk Publishing). He has three previous poetry collections, including That Rain We Needed (2016, Press 53), a nominee for the Roanoke-Chowan Award as one of North Carolina’s best poetry collections of 2016. A two-time Pushcart nominee, his poems recently appeared in Salvation South, Verse-Virtual, Ekphrastic Review, Grand Little Things, and online journals Dead Mule School of Literature, American Diversity Report, and Medusa’s Kitchen.