I took my haircut back to the shop
On account that it was wonky.
It’s something that I’ve struggled with,
The trichology of a donkey…
Wiry, wilful, bloody-minded
Frankly not at all inclined-ed
To concur with passing trends
So I could look just like my friends.
And so unfolded my teenage years,
The barnet barely grazing my ears,
Never really quite the Look
I’d envied in the fashion books,
Remembering with particular concern
The universal trend of The Perm…
Open to everyone but me.
I pleaded!- Oh, the indignity!
‘If we do that, madam,
You can rest assured
The style you imagine
Won’t be secured,
Based on the chemical combinations
Required to enable such a sensation:
Baldness not a much sought-after chic
Post Sinead O’Connor at her Eighties peak,
With Dallas big-hair an alternative trend,
Less for the women, more for the men
In their turn, much handsomer then{!}…
Ladies preoccupied with their barnets
Sprays and pins surpassing hairnets;
Hair with sculptural solidity
Completely defying gravity
And not to mention the noxious chemicals
That these days seem completely acceptable
As long as the pre-tests are done with care-
A patch on the skin and a strand of hair
Just to be sure there’ll be no reaction
Resulting in the vivid distraction
Of luminosity – or of baldness.
Oh, my goodness! What a mess!!
And all because the trends dictate
Short, straight, grey hair is an abominable state…




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