This barber is good. He rents a space
at the old Farmers Hotel.
What I like is, he can do a fade,
which is fine, but that’s not my thing
(anymore). Anyways, he’s great
for a scissor cut. He’s Italian, from Palermo.
He doesn’t take too much off the top.
His door is always open to the street.
It’s the breezy part of the day. 

“I love Aruba,” he says,
“today’s weather reminds me
of Aruba.” He then shows me a song
his son is writing. He shows me
a video of his son in the studio.
His son looks like a cat who just slipped,
confident and bewildered.
“My son made this,
but the song’s too long.”

I close my eyes while he cuts my bangs.
He shows me a song he wrote, years ago.
“I wish you spoke Italian.”
“Me too.” I say as he cups his hand
up to his phone speaker.
“It’s about loving someone so much,
that it’s like you’re walking
every day in the park —
that’s what it’s about.”
“That’s a good feeling.” 

“Are you going anywhere this summer?” He asks.
“Back home then to see my wife’s family —
It’s my grandparent’s 60th.”
He mouths “WOW!” while lining up my neck.
“Where I’m from it’s hot in July.
But my wife’s family lives in Seattle.
(Does he know where Bellingham is?)
Expensive tickets right now.” 

“How much?” He asks.
“About 750 a person.”
“Nah. That’s not much. Think
about it. You’re flying over
the whole country in one day.
And, you’re not the one flying —
(he motions) You’re sitting.
I mean, gas would be more than that.
How many miles is it?”
“About 3000”
“Exactly! That’s a lot of gas.
And time. And you need a place to sleep.
Unless you sleep in your car.”

He pulls the cape off
and puts a razor in the handle.
He shaves my neck, and my favorite part,
he snags an old cotton rag
from the UV warmer and
massages my neck like a grandma
or lover. “Et voila!”
“Sick”
“Thank you.”
“No, thank you.”
I pay him and ask for five back.
I grab my stuff.
He swings the door open and says
“It’s a miracle to fly.” 

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