“Barbershop,” Friend, Mar. 1997, 30


    The barber wraps me in a sheet

    When I sit in his chair.

    I hear his scissors snip-snip-snipping

    As he quickly cuts my hair.

    He lets me hold the mirror and comb,

    And if my neck gets prickly,

    He sweeps it with his little broom—

    It’s nice and soft and tickly.

    The barber pole goes round and round

    With stripes that never stop.

    I wonder where those stripes all go

    When they get to the top.