Death of a Barber

Not Mustafa, but one of his colleagues
cut my hair today.
That's when I learned that Mustafa
had passed away,
a victim of the virus.

Intimate work, the barber's:
fingers, scissors and razor
titivating
with professional gentleness
crown, sides, back and neck.
Almost a caress.

I had been going for ages
to the little shop he used to have,
festooned with climbing plants
and budgerigars in cages,
before I learned Mustafa's name
and something of his life
but, as etymology tells us,
touch and tact are the same.

For months now, no one had touched me
except my wife,
and I was looking forward
to a needed trim.
I got one, as expert and luxurious
as any of Mustafa's,
But it was not from him. 

Christopher Reid

For months now, no one had touched me except my wife

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