I have always struggled finding a barber that can cut hair well. Finding this barbershop was a…read moretotal life saver. In fact I wrote a poem on it.
"Du Placey's Song"
In the heart of Hamilton, where the sun kisses the streets, Lies a haven for tousled souls seeking a trim so neat. Du Placey's Barber Shop, oh, what tales it weaves, Where blades whisper secrets and combs gently tease.
Mr. Brown, the master of this cozy domain, Wields his shears with grace, like a seasoned refrain. His hands, swift as swallows, sculpt hair into art, Each snip a stroke of magic, a symphony's part.
The worn leather chairs cradle patrons with care, As they wait their turn, lost in magazines' glare. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday unfold, The shop hums with stories, both young and old.
The mirror reflects dreams, laughter, and strife, As Mr. Brown spins his tales of a well-lived life. He trims away worries, unruly strands of doubt, And leaves behind confidence--a crown without clout.
Saturday mornings witness the bustling crowd, From businessmen to poets, their heads held proud. The scent of aftershave mingles with old-school charm, As Du Placey's weaves memories, stitch by stitch, warm.
And what of the owl perched high on the shelf? A silent observer, wise beyond measure, himself. "Who stuffed that white owl?" the youth once inquired, As Mr. Brown shaved, unruffled, and never tired.
"An owl cannot roost with limbs unloosed," he declared, "No owl in this world had claws curled or bill canted." The owl, with a wink, hooted, as if to say, "Your learning's at fault this time, anyway."
So here's to Du Placey's, where scissors compose, Where hair becomes poetry, and time gently slows. May your fades be crisp, your sideburns divine, And may Mr. Brown keep shaving, one tale at a time.
