Ode to the Old Barbers

By Kevin Coval | Originally posted at The Adroit Journal

 
there were three.
i went to the man in the middle
who knew the least english.
bulbous cheeks like cherry snow
cones. a laurel or hardy mustache.

Chicago had a polish radio station
low in the am, an all-day murmur.
the chatter of a different country
in a neighborhood of new comers
when Ukrainian Village was polish
& Mexican.

Black combs bathed in electric blue.
mirrors everywhere, an infinite endless
reflection. grey smocks & grey haired
barbers who brought their lunch to work;
brown bags with pickled beets, cabbage
stuffed with sausage & rice.

the blade, exacto knife precise, over
my ear, clip the lip meticulous, a geometric
concern. sculptors of chin, when i knew
no one else, they took me in. i told them
my bubbe was polish, cześć, we joked
we were cousins, though the mother
country rounded her kin into pogroms.

hands of oak & pipe tobacco, hold
a knife at my throat. the sharp
gallant scent of aftershave. baby
powder on my neck like a kolaczki.
they’d send me back into the world
anew, lines sharper than the viaducts.
feelin like a million bucks for twelve.
i’d tip three, every two weeks

until the sign
says closed

& the massage spa neon
glows.