It’s been ages, no story has ever caught hold..
The tales of barbers swooshing through black-thin or bold.
I have been scared of them, the whodunits impecunious souls,
From the times of Mahabharata in a Sunday household.
I grew them once-and grew them again..& they would wait..
hands laded with scissors, blade, smirks & combs..oh’ they would!
strapped inside a sheet filthy old, filled in rage..bereaved in the lost,
I could no longer be a world..I was passé but there were other stars to emulate,
No longer my change..I was taught to imitate!
The people & their chairs would trade place, but the places were all the same,
Tap to a tune on a broken radio, hum to their snarly dreamy time..
At least I could leave & unlike electricity that would not come again!
