A tale I wrote
Barry seduced the door of the barbershop open.
The heart-shaped bell above the entrance
jingled like the morning of a wedding.
The mirrors on the walls were the fairest
of them all. A set of clippers sang their way
over the head of a horizontal customer.
The waistcoat-donned dapper owner
crooned Barry over to a lip-pink leather throne.
He tap-danced his gleaming black loafers
on the could-be-dance floor tiles
like a classy restaurant pianist
caressing the ivories with his fingertips.
Scissors flirted their way behind ear lobes,
kissed their way across fringes.
Bottles of shampoo bubbled like lava lamps in the 70s.
Barry melted in the way you do
when you finally feel at home.
His face was a love letter.
"What can we do for you today, sir?" chimed the owner.
"Nothing too fancy," he said. "It's my trial this afternoon."