Haircut

This is a lost art,
a skill from the past,
like riding a bike
or playing tic-tac.

I am rejoining the club.

Standing here,
I remember them,
the anonymous men:
stilted voices, knowing glances;
staring at walls,
talking about nothing.
Taking the piss.
The raised seat
and Stan,
his table stacked
with comics and porn -
Sodom and Gomorrah -
and Lot’s wife
his cigarette,
balanced
on the filter,
burned
to a column
of ash.

Smoke and smut.

These days, I want it clean-cut.
Fully inducted into manhood,
I am no longer amazed
by Brylcreem, combs and styptic pencils,
the paraphernalia of membership,
talcum powder and disinfectant.

I have returned,
looking for magic.

Something for the weekend.