When I placed comfortably myself in a saloon chair,
The habitual barber’s magical hands went for hair,
Of scalp, cheeks, chin and mustaches ripe collection,
With the assistance of inherited razor kit’s selection.

It’s the habit of these specialists to grab the hair-splits,
Squeeze in an awkward way to pick up protrusive bits,
With the base of lather of brush to cut the ugly corners,
And to ensure comprehensive shaving without pointers.

Looking beyond the horizontal and vertical mirror images,
Has become the cruel regular habit upon crossing ages,
As I always longed to remain a young and fresh goose,
Even at the expense of oil, soap and shampoos cut loose.

Here is one profession which has no caste and races,
But to trim the thick and thin, the grim and chirpy faces;
Treat able and weak bodies, thugs and officers alike,
Not to forget the ugly and handsome, sad and look-alike(s).
                                                                                 

G. C. Rao
27-02-2010