At the Barbers

She has a way of tilting your head
as if lining up a thought.
Neither rough nor tender—decisive,
like someone used to responsibility.

She remembers names,
gently enquires after sick wives,
errant sons, daughters who never phone,
knees that won’t work on the stairs.

Old blokes come in for the cut,
eyebrow decluttering,
nose tweezering,
ears tweaked of fluff.

She works quickly, cheaply.
Cash only. Her father’s rule.
Upstairs he “keeps the books,”
which means smoking by the window.

She wanted to stay at school
she tells me
but left at fifteen
learned the grammar of heads—

quiffs, cowlicks, scars,
the way grief settles.
When I sit she listens
as if the day depends on it.

At the end she brushes my collar clean,
steps back, checks a job well done.
I leave,
feeling better.

Stephen Chappell came to poetry late (he is 72 and counting), finding the writing and reading of it a pleasure and an addiction. He lives on the side of the Malvern Hills with dog, cat and significant other and is mostly happy, especially when writing.