“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.