At the Hair Cuttery

This is an experiment with using the second person point of view ("you") in a poem.  And, of course, I got a hair cut the other day. 

                                                                   At the Hair Cuttery

                                        You’re one of those WALK-INS who are WELCOME
                                         so you are willing to bare your neck
                                         to a stranger armed with sharp instruments.
                                         You implicitly hope for a friendly Figaro
                                         and not Sweeney Todd in this impulsive
                                         quest for perfect hair at a cut rate.
                                         It’s all about trust, and the barber
                                         has your back. He can see your hidden
                                         side, the self you seldom see (or want to)
                                         with the bald spot no comb over can cover.
                                       
                                         Or rather, she can see, since this is one
                                         of those hair salons that has blurred the line
                                         between barber and beauty shop(pe).
                                         Gone are the days of the Police Gazette,
                                         brass spittoons, Brylcreem, and the ballgame
                                         on the radio; now it’s Vogue, Vidal Sassoon,
                                         mousse, and whatever music Pandora picks.
                                         We are all unisexuals now.
                                         Still, it’s nice to have a young stylist
                                         stroke your head, smile at the mirror,
                                         and ask you exactly what you want-
                                         even if she does suggest
                                         she trim your ear hair.


Notes to foreign (and younger) readers:  The Police Gazette  was a magazine for men that included pictures of girls; spittoons were for men to spit in, especially if they chewed tobacco; Brylcreem still exists, but it used to be a more popular cream for keeping men's hair in place.  All these are artifacts from the days when barbershops outnumbered hair salons and were more dominantly a man's place to be.