Memories

My Barber
At the appointed time on the appointed day, my brothers and I went down to the barber.
Wise. Handsome. Tall. Athletic. Strong, yet with the gentle touch and dexterous hands of a surgeon.

To cut the hair on the far side of my head, he didn’t spin the stool, and he didn’t walk around the chair either. Rather, he snuggled my head over against his chest so he could reach over to the far side, working from above.

I could hear his breathing. I could feel his breathing.

I could feel his heart.

When the whim struck, he blew away the loose hairs from my neck or face with a burst of his own breath.
Once finished, my barber would stand back, gaze proudly at his work, and then proclaim, “Not bad for ... »
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