The Continental Barber Poem by Gert Strydom

As a token a red and white emblem turns
outside the premises,
at the corner of the street
looking like some sucking sweet
or type of old lollipop
that as a child I used to eat.

Inside the barbershop a faint smell is present
but to it I cannot connect a fragrance,
almost like an age-old aftershave,
maybe a disinfectant
and the shop is squeaky clean

where an elderly barber waits me in,
asks if I want the same cut as the last time,
guides me to a old black comfortable cutting chair
places a plastic covering over my chest
that he ties with self adhesive tape
at the back of my neck

and he talks about life in general, the weather
a holiday in Portugal on Madeira Island
asks about my job, the family
while with a pair of sharp scissors
he barbers me and expertly
cuts the hair down to the right length
and I see brown locks falling
while the scissors that goes snip, snip with precision

and with a sharp blade razor some hair at the sides
and neck is shaven off,
before some of the magic cologne, aftershave
or whatever it is, is sprinkled there
and he brings a small mirror
to display how I look
at the back and sides

and transformed from a long haired individual
I am again a decent human being
with age old order being restored
to how I look.