My Barber is powerful.

He has the power to change me.

The Lord knows what terror would strike me 

if he ever looked at the skin fade strangely.

 

He snips and he buzzes, targeting each and every fragile follicle- catastrophically chopping down each strand, separating it from my anatomy and turning it into dust.

 

One fragile follicle frantically fell- i watched and observed- i felt sorry this this follicle- who will now turn into dust. No longer important, it lays on the floor- separated from society, and by his own family, shown the door.

But my barber doesn’t care, he carries on snipping, until the fade is complete, will he ever stop ripping?

 

At the end of the fade, he holds up the mirror- my scalp is a canvas, illustrating the death of the masses. 

I stare at the floor, give a nod of approval, the corpses of dead history dominate the tiling- someone get the hoover!

 

But for my barber, no he does not care. My fifteen quid is enough to fuel his ferocious flair.