The Barber Shop

The Barber shop

My ‘fro was ridiculously awesome.
Nine inches off my ridiculous head.
Mom thinks its too black, hood, and tiresome.
Way too far back to the 80s junction.

It must be cut she says in her tone.
Might as well stab me right through my tired heart,
Its not like I’m rockin braids or some chrome.
Not a gangsta, She won’t leave me alone.

I call my pops with his trip whipped hooptey.
I’m minutes from losing my identity.
Was expecting dad to say something tryin’.
Off to the cultural guillotine I should be cryin.

there is a thick musty spell of burnt hair,
Just a room full of humid tired bones.
People waiting patiently gasping air.
A child is astonished but it’s fair.

The barbers work with uncanny precision,
One profession where misses are deadly.
Hopefully the razor won’t be God’s decision.
I wonder if they have emergency provisions.

With a few passes of the fast razor.
My fro has passed onto the floor.
Now I’ve become a race traitor.
Time to go rob some banks and make myself greater.

-Your Buddy