Barber Shop

In the surroundings of the unaccustomed barber shop,
I am, as if, an interruption
to the twin mirrors lost in chatter
perched, equidistant -
Hooks on their shoulders,
formless faces of deflective silver, accommodating
every stroke of physical detail
since their unremarkable installations.
 
The room, devoid of customers,
fills up, easily, with a crowd of me -
Reflections, like organic clones, 
forming family so astonishingly similar
that I lose myself in the midst 
of half-brothers,
their eyes, round with wonder,
expressions, filled with caution;
curious, shy, uncanny.
 
I notice from my cushioned seat,
Several versions of me-
lips, the color of shy rhododendrons,
bending into infinity, vanishing
beyond the mirror and into the wall
where emotions have no purpose.
Where lineage is a mystery.
 
I sit quietly,
arms folded, 
and listen intently
to the sounds surrounding me.

A radio, near the vaulted ceiling,
sneezes loudly.

Walls, the color of ocean lichen,
hiccup, out of breath.
 
Scissors, with splayed arms,
slice first through air, their metallic blades
giddy with laughter and childish merrymaking,
till they reach my hair,
and chomp off my very own
into sheer lifelessness.
 
The barber finishes in ten minutes,
leaving behind
an artifact of his skill;
my head, now,
a scaffolding of restless edges.

I pay my dues in paper bills
and walk out, onto the bustle of the street -
my half-brothers, having converged
into an unfamiliar memory of me.