There is an uneasy truce:
He wields the razor,
I pay the tip.

He needs the money
more than I need the trim;
my beard is neat,

but I want to like
what I see
in the mirror.

The next client is early.
His pace quickens,
the blade draws blood,

and I wince.
Razor burn, he suggests.
He means, I’m exhausted.

Later, my neck still bleeds.
What can I do,
the manager asks.

Fire him, I say,
unnerved by my rage
and my unearned power.