In days of youth, with tousled hair,
I ventured to the barber’s chair,
A timid lad, with nerves aglow,
To shape my locks, I did bestow.

The barber’s den, a fragrant space,
With polished mirrors, chrome embraced,
A sanctuary for tales and trims,
Where artistry and skill begins.

Upon the throne, I perched, unsure,
As barber draped a cape obscure,
He bore a smile, his shears a dance,
A craftsman with a countenance.

The clip, the snip, the gentle hum,
The whispered words, a soothing drum,
He sculpted strands with practiced hand,
Transforming boy into a man.

The buzz of razors filled the air,
A symphony, a barber’s prayer,
With every stroke, a story wove,
Of youth and dreams, of life and love.

In this cocoon of scented foam,
I found a temporary home,
Where worries fled and time stood still,
Amidst the hum, a tranquil thrill.

His scissors moved with grace and ease,
Like poetry upon the breeze,
He carved a tale upon my head,
An artful masterpiece, widespread.

I marveled at his skillful ways,
His hands, a dance of fleeting days,
For in his touch, there lay a power,
To tame the wild, to shape the flower.

As I emerged, reborn, anew,
A mirror held a different view,
No longer just a tousled child,
But one with purpose, reconciled.

Oh, barber true, your craft, a gift,
A momentary spirits lift,
For in your hands, I found the key,
To confidence and dignity.

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