The Barber Poem by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal

The Barber

(for Dr. Alois Alzheimer)

Alois lifts Mother’s wet tresses,
glides them through his fingers,
smoothes them flat, focuses on the task

of cutting, shaping, redefining
tangles of twisting fiber & thickening
plaque beneath her scalp. I watch

her live with whatever he does,
watch her face the mirror. Her silver
hair shines. She doesn’t look

or look away. My thoughts turn
to her beauty-parlor days:
Once back home, she’d head straight

to her bedroom, root herself at her vanity
& pull & pull her cropped locks trying to stretch
them back to a length she could live with.