Poor Karl I!I

Karl always shook my hand. He talked to me man to man. He was a man, I was a young guy. Karl was my friend, and I treated him as such. If Karl needed a ride, I would've asked my dad to give him one. If Karl was upset, I'd tip him more to cheer him up. Karl was cool, you know? I think my invested business and friendship would have called him a friend. But he was just my barber. And friends give friends chances, but Karl's chance's were limited. In fact, they did not exist. Karl messed up one day. One screw up, that's all it took.

Poor Karl II

Karl was chanceless. Yes, in my eyes he was my friend. One that I could tell about my grades, the girls I queued, and my hopes for the future. For twelve dollars every other week I was a friend in a chair. A client, a job, a gig. My bi-weekly conversationalist immortalized my hair for the first four days, until it began to wilt and default back to raw form in which it was time to schedule another appointment to revive my hair. Karl was my friend, Karl was cool. Karl understood the need for a young black man to appear engaging.

Poor Karl

As this cold rain slams on to the pavement, plodding away at its integrity. The subtle mystique intrigues me, as choral backgrounds of praise and glory are heard in the distance. Silently swiveling my head I come to think about Karl. Yes Karl, he was a smooth fellow, always presented himself in a genuine manner. He had a low-range voice that added to his suave comportment. Dress casual. Yes indeed he did read and his glasses didn't make him look dorky, it added to his reserved intelligence. 

Karl was wonderful at what he did. Never kept me waiting, and he kept the haters hating. I was content with Karl. I referred people to Karl as I told them I preferred no other person, but Karl. He was immortally my investment. And I was his client. And Karl... cut my hair.