Re-locating

The card on the door has turned from ‘OPEN’ to ‘CLOSED’,
The neon ‘GENTLEMEN’S HAIRDRESSING’ sign
Has been turned off, in the window.
The overall is hung up and the floor is sept clean of hair.
Clippers, scissors and combs are all silent, razors at rest.
The strop hangs still and the cloths all folded lie.

Mr Carter, hairdresser (pure gents’ work)
Has closed his shop, and all is dark.
He has slipped into the back for a well earned rest.
A pot of tea, perhaps? A last glance thro’
The Coldstream Guards Gazette, and then-
“No, not asleep at all- just resting my eyes.”

But when he wakes, it is to the bustle and jostle
And laughs and kisses and hugs and handshakes
And tears of joy and general mayhem of welcome
From family and friends, comrades and customers
Gone before and now waiting to greet him
And all lead by who but Queenie, the one love-light of his life.


Of course, before the celebrations are even half begun
Some scruffy little angel with his hair on his collar
Sidles up and murmurs  “Got your kit with you Nick?
Give us a clean-up eh? I’m on church parade in the morning”
Comes the reply- “Certainly, young man. My pleasure”.
Light flutters on fingers and fine steel, and the job is done.

But a favour in return, fair’s fair, and so-
“Now can you just point out the ‘Head Gyppo’?
I would be interested to hear his opinion
On how to go about roasting a joint of beef,
(I prefer it so the blood follows the knife- you know)
And I wondered if he might come by one- occasionally?”

Then for Mr Harold George Darwent Carter,
Ex Coldstream Guardsman, barber to the soldiers
Of his Britannic Majesty, King George the Sixth,
Gentlemen’s Hairdresser and Barber (pure gents’ work)
It will be business as usual, beneath the striped pole
And he will be in heaven.
                                                     

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