Friday, June 13, 2014


Every four months she cuts my hair
Scissors, tattoos
Her name starts with an A
One of those newer ones
Allyssa or Allison
Not Agnes or Alice

She's young
No wrinkles
No marks of divorce 
or bad credit

We talk
The work
The weather
I tell her I'm going back to college,
that I'm getting grayer 
One here, two there
It's all there:
The worried lines
The bad marks
The average credit

"So, how old are you?" she asks, her fingers pale.

I tell her
Her face doesn't register anything
She's seen me before
She's done her own math

"You look ten years younger."

My folks had me young
Too young
In L.A
Maybe that had something to do with it
I don't know

I wonder how many haircuts I've had
The buzz cuts
The feathered jobs
And how many more I'll have
When it's all over
There will be a number
There always is

That motherfucker had 106 haircuts
He packed for Yosemite 17 times
He drank moonshine 3 times

She runs my card and I sign
I take note I've been spending
a lot of money lately
Piling more shit around me
She sees the tip and thanks me
I was a waiter
For years
Dropping off burgers and butter
I was young
I remember

"Thanks again," I say. "If you make it to Yosemite do a little hiking. See the park. Don't just get drunk and feed the squirrels."

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