My first haircut
was performed by
Mr. Longshaw,
Percy, I think
a pal of my grandfather.
He wore a long
white coat
like a boffin
a tonsorial ‘Q’
with Brylcreem
traces on his sleeve
the aroma of his
floating in grey clouds
above the foggy Woodbine’s
burning in the stolen
metal pub ashtrays
next to the bench
on which punter after punter
sat impatiently
sighing into his pocket watch
a rolled up Daily Mirror or somesuch
by his side.

His own mirror taped
with old sepia
of Tivoli matinee idols
long gone
perhaps examples
of his expertise.

I can’t be certain
what with
my innocence still intact
but I feel he did
a roaring Friday trade
in industrial strength latex products
“something for the weekend, sir?”
just a cryptic puzzle
to me then,
a bowl upon my head
and clippers clapping
above my ears
drowning out the
embarrassed affirmations.

Today my hair was styled by a young man wearing a t-shirt with a naked lady printed on it.

TV Times

Something about a third
and sparking synapses skip
to a scratched old memory track
crackling it begins
the theme to something
in London yet not,
perhaps the south of France?
“Twang, twang, ta, twang, twang!”
and then it sticks
of a soul of a soul of a soul of a soul
Revolution No. 33.333 recurring
of a soul of a soul of a soul of a soul
it is easy to buy.

Bye bye.

to be honest though,
I’d hoped for Van der Valk