Like the fading adhesiveness of an overused
\nstamp, the afternoon heat distances itself
\nfrom summer, from the calendar of humidity
\nthe downtown trees have slowly matured from,
\nchanging their leaves into shriveled shades
\nof orange, brown. Their foliage scatters
\nbetween the rows of parking meters, lampposts,
\ndouble-parked cars, beneath the barbershop window\u2019s
\nfaint, fluorescent sign, where debris flares up
\nat the pair of poles weathered of their stripes,
\nof the chance to warp my eyes into infinity,
\nas we shuffle in, and I begin to scan the line
\nof seated faces too old with conversation to return
\na stare, too retired on the daily craft of speech
\nto shift their focus, lift or readjust themselves,
\ncrank their wrinkled necks from the sculpted sea
\nof foam; their lathered lives centered
\non an oval frame of mirrors. <\/p>\n
Not even the younger, hunched over barbers
\nlook up, shout more than a soft \u201cCome in\u201d
\nas we slide our way in, sit down, and my father
\nexplains they\u2019ve already signed me in on their mental list
\nof who\u2019s next; their language of regulars extended
\nto us, reinforced with an echo of trust, then phased out
\nwith the swift and shifting melody of shears,
\nthe mechanical chorus of clippers plowing
\nthrough layered snowflakes of hair. A small
\nChristmas planted on each of their scalps,
\nsprinkled like polka dots around my father\u2019s ears,
\nand parted with a combed sense of sophistication
\nstill decades from rooting on my head, as I run
\nmy fingers through the back of my neck, and feel
\nalmost ashamed how my hair\u2019s the longest
\nand least aged in this room.<\/p>\n
But even if the stack of magazines tear
\nlike papyrus, and that slow and ancient beat
\nof what I think is jazz seeps through the plastic
\nstereo, the ceiling fan air mimics the same sense
\nof localness back home, the notion that the world
\ncan be reduced to the smallest space and the most
\nuncomplicated people, as the far end,
\nbald-headed barber waves me over, adjusts
\nand lowers his rusted, red swivel throne. <\/p>\n
And as my father stands behind us, mutters
\nsmall-talk and directions I can\u2019t make out,
\nI imagine my locks as wet ash falling to the ground,
\na shrapnel of strands smudged like black blood
\naround my temples, mouth, while the barber\u2019s hands
\nglide through the shy borders of my skull, shape
\na palmful of cream around my jaw, aware
\nthere\u2019s nothing here but empty follicles
\nto shave off, and yet shaving at the steady pace
\nof his technique, as if pressing the cold blade
\nagainst my neck, my unpronounced cheeks,
\nis enough to make me acknowledge who I am,
\nor who I\u2019ll be when he takes the blue cape off,
\nand like a moth shedding the cocoon from its wings,
\ngives me the space to shake what I no longer need;
\nmy cross-hatched patches of rite buried
\nat my feet, swept with pieces of a boy
\nI knew I could no longer keep. <\/p>\n
Like the fading adhesiveness of an overused stamp, the afternoon heat distances itself from summer, from the calendar of humidity the downtown trees have slowly matured from, changing their leaves into shriveled shades of orange, brown. Their foliage scatters between the rows of parking meters, lampposts, double-parked cars, beneath the barbershop window\u2019s faint, fluorescent sign, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":22,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[12],"tags":[25],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-243","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7939"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/22"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=7939"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7939\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10215,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7939\/revisions\/10215"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7939"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7939"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7939"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}