To Your Son

Picture him good and clear in your mind’s eye. He stands in the doorway of a barbershop. His hair is freshly cut and shaped, and his face is smooth shaven - still red. He’s fresh out of the chair and there is moisture on the back of his neck. Yes, that’s right; picture him - with his neck still wet from the barber’s wet scissors and the wetness mixed in with the talcum powder from the barber’s brush. See how he lifts the collar on his coat to guard his neck from the breeze. Look at how he stands while he waits at the doorway – leaning slightly forward – checking the streets, left and right. Can you see how he draws his head in from the rain? How his broad shoulders tense up when a drop falls on his polished leather shoe? Watch him straighten his tie up to his neck, wipe his forehead with a clean white sleave and rock back and forth on his feet - checking the streets. And is that sleave sprayed with Old Spice? Sure it is, you can smell it through the rain.

And what type of man is he? Can you see? Is he timid, precarious? Or wild and arrogant? Is he a phoney? A sleaze? An aggressor? Surely not. No, no, he can’t be. Even his broad shoulders look harmless, the way he holds them. Why yes, he is clearly a foreign man. Can you see this in his face? This foreignness? Like there's no ground at his feet. Like he is adrift. Can you see it in his stance that he lives alone in a rented flat and drinks coffee and looks out the kitchen window and thinks to himself, Today is a good day for a haircut. Or, otherwise, Today I shall walk young Sooty, to the park. Or the beach or along the terrace and over to the markets, where they sell fresh vegetables and newly cut flowers. It’s all in his stance and gaze. Watch him. The foreigner. See how he blends in.

Look at him. He must be good with his dog, Sooty. Those gentle hands, lightly cupped bellow the cuff. You can see how he must crouch down to the dog’s level and scratch behind her ears - how he'd cup both hands beneath a running tap and let the young bitch lap at the miniature pool of cool water in his hands. Sooty and he are good together. You can picture it.

But notice, now, that he is waiting for someone. Another dog owner? Perhaps; but, surely, a woman. A lady. A new love. A girl who gets the blood pumping; who is worth getting a haircut for; who is worth waiting for in the doorway of a barber shop, in the cold - just out of reach of the rain. Can you see him, with his collar up? Waiting. Look closer. I urge you

Look into his thoughts. Are they of Sooty and the operation after the anti-freeze incident? Such an expensive operation. Are they of his empty apartment? The piles of unwashed dishes in the kitchen? Of the bills on the table by the front door? No, they cannot be. Not on this day. Not by a long shot. Today his thoughts remain fastened to one thing: The Girl, her white stockings with those funny floral patterns - her little grey shoes. Will she be wearing those same shoes today? They are old fashioned and look like those a nurse would wear in a hospital. But she pulls it off, he thinks. Boy does she pull it off. Look now. See how his eyebrows move as he thinks of this young lady, in her small grey shoes and funny white stockings. See the look of wanting admiration in his eyes. She’s a pin-up, he thinks to himself, that bouncy, curled hair and pastel skirt and freckles and that wonderful smile. Those lips, those full red lips. And that smile!

Here she comes now.