Saturday, the shop is almost full
Two chairs turning underneath the television
Everybody's talking over everybody
Somebody's laughing about a woman he won't call back
You sit three feet from me
Close enough that I can smell your aftershave
I look at the mirror instead
Like the mirror has somewhere else to look

That's the way men learn to hide it
Talk about cars, talk about football
Talk about the weather changing
Anything that keeps the room from getting personal
You ask me where I'm from
I only say the name of my neighborhood
You ask if I'm seeing someone
I smile like I didn't hear you

You look good in the mirror
You know you do
And I fucking hate that I noticed
I fucking hate that I keep noticing
Every time you turn your head
Something in me forgets the rules
Then remembers them again

The barber puts the cape around you
You sit still while the clippers pass your ear
I watch your reflection
You catch me watching
Neither of us says anything
The television gets louder
The room keeps moving around us
And somehow we are standing still
Maybe that's what makes it fucking dangerous
Not the wanting

You ask if I'm coming back next Saturday
I tell you probably
You laugh
Like probably means something different coming from me
The barber sweeps the floor
You hold the door open
I walk through
Then turn around

You're still watching me
And for once
I don't look away