He cuts my hair, but gives me truth,
About his past, his wild youth.
He swears he once cut Diamond’s side,
Then quotes Mandela with some pride.
The scissors snip, the wisdom flows.
He talks of love, of heartbreak woes,
Of clients rich and fake afros.
He trims and gossips, tells who’s real,
Then asks if I want “just a feel?”
I nod—he’s now my therapist.
The radio hums, the fan is broke,
There’s banter thick as morning smoke.
One man’s asleep beneath the chair,
Another swears by scented hair.
A kingdom run on style and chat.
Each cut comes with a life review—
“Don’t trust a man who dyes his shoe.”
“Success is found in tapered fades.”
“Don’t marry soft,” the barber says.
It’s more than hair—it’s soul repair.
I leave with edge and half a plan,
A line-up and a confident stand.
No seminar can match that chair,
Where razors hum through thought and care.
My barber—sage in clipper’s skin.
