The Wooden Ball

Now, it’d been a country mile since that old cowpoke saw a barber’s chair... Hair hangin’ long, like a willow tree in a dust storm. He saunters in, spurs jinglin’ on the linoleum, and says: "Cutter, I need the works. Shear the mane and scrape the chin." But he leaned in close, smellin’ like leather and trail dust, and whispered: "You won't get it all, son. These wrinkles are deep as the Grand Canyon... The sun’s been bakin’ my hide since the winter of '92." Oh, the desert hides the lines... In the canyon of the mind... Rolling circles in the dark... Looking for a brand new spark... Smooth it over, let it slide... Nowhere left for the dust to hide. The barber, he just smirks, pulls a drawer with a creak. Pulls out a little wooden ball, polished and sleek. "Pop this in your cheek, old-timer," the barber says with a wink. "It stretches the skin tighter than a drum, quicker than you can think. "One side, then the other, the razor glides like ice on a pond. The cowboy looks in the glass... man, he’s back to the Great Beyond. Smooth as a river stone, shiny as a new dime. He hasn't looked this young since before his prime. Oh, the desert hides the lines... In the canyon of the mind... Rolling circles in the dark... Looking for a brand new spark... Smooth it over, let it slide... Nowhere left for the dust to hide. He’s handin’ back that ball, feelin’ slicker than grease. But a thought pops in his head, disturbin’ his peace. "Say, doc," he barks, "that’s a mighty fine trick, I'll admit...But what if I’d swallowed that marble? Just a bit? "The barber don't even blink, just wipes down his blade. Looks the cowboy in the eye, in the cool of the shade: "No sweat, partner," he says, with a voice dry as bone. "You’d just bring it back in a couple of days... like everyone else we've known." "Bring it back... bring it back...".