Whenever the barbershop apron failed
the floor stepped in to collect every
last bit of gray that fell from my
head. Except for those few
strands that dangled
precariously from
his hands.
Hands that moved quickly across
my face. Then side to side
And with every passing,
an old memory was
recaptured.
The faint smell of tobacco on
fingers that held the same
brand of cigarette that
my grandfather had
smoked whenever
he too cut my
hair.
Peace
Copyright 2019
Image Credit: Pixabay
