Hit with a mélange of memories
as I sit for my last haircut on my
90 th birthday. I ride a baby bronco
barber chair at the age of 3 getting
my first haircut by a Polish immigrant,
who spoke little English, but loved kids.
A giant size lollypop is my reward.
Later, I’m a teenager with a huge
Pompadour, playing my trumpet
like Harry James in my swing band.
Then my head is shaved at Fort Dix
as I lose my identity to be a soldier.
Now, I live each day as if it may be
my last as once again I must sit still
to keep my hearing aids from being cut.
I have no fear of this being my last haircut.
The Talmud reminds us that those who
willl be remembered never really die.
I know I will be remembered.