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), but anyways he’s good 
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 shows me the song his son is writing. 
He shows me his son in the studio,
looking bewildered and confident,
like a cat who just slipped. 
My son made this, he says. 
It’s too long, he says. 

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

Are you going anywhere this summer? He asks.
Back home then to see my wife’s family, I say,
It’s my grandparent's 60th. 
WOW — he says and lines up my neck. 
It’s hot in July, I say.
My wife’s family lives in Seattle, I say.
(Does he know where Bellingham is?)
Expensive tickets right now, I say. 

How much? He asks. 
About 600 a person, I say. 
Nah. That’s not that much, he says, 
Think about it. You’re flying in one day. 
And, you’re not the one flying. 
You’re sitting — he motions,
I mean, gas would be more than that. 
How many miles is it? He asks.
About 3000, I say. 
He says, Exactly. That’s a lot of gas. 
And time. And you need a place to sleep. 
Unless you sleep in the car. 

He pulls the cape off 
and puts the razor in the handle. 
He shaves my neck, and my favorite part, 
gets the old cotton rag out of the uv warmer. 
He massages my neck 
like a grandma or lover. 
He says — et voila. 
Sick — I say. 
Thank you, thank you, we say. 
I pay him and ask for five back. 
I grab my stuff. 
It's a miracle to fly, he says.

---

This barber actually rents a space in the building that this song was written about. My poem has no connection to the song, thematically at least.