127 292
Poems
127
Barbershop Nights
An Eye-Witness Account
Mr. Gică never sleeps.
In the evening, after he closes, he combs his hair, cleans his
instruments, wipes the mirrors, washes the aprons, and then
he rests a little with his fingers crossed over his stomach,
slowly twiddling his thumbs. Once it’s completely dark, he
goes in back
and turns on the sign for the clandestine hair salon.
Mr. Gică is the world’s greatest clandestine hair stylist.
He has six normal chairs and six with hair dryers.
At midnight,
in lamé dresses
with bare backs,
smoking long cigarettes,
eyes shining with belladonna,
they come for Mr. Gică to do their hair:
the wives of tenors and soccer players.
Then he slowly rolls down their velvet gloves,
their hose
˲