Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
My forehead is expanding but it’s not by growth of brain;
My hairline is receding, that is all.
Hair-washing’s less demanding and to dry it is no strain.
I find no need for combing it at all.
When autumn comes I feel the chill far sharper than before.
Snug woolly hat is very necessary;
A haircut (bristly-short) aids its adherence all the more,
Like Velcro, though wind be e’er so blustery.
As if in compensation, other hair-crops grow apace -
Ears Midas-tufted, nose-wires, Brillo brows.
My beard is most conspicuous: a bramble-tangled place –
Or ‘barbed wire-’ maybe? Steel-grey, anyhow.
Do I regret the loss of locks of yesteryear? Why yes;
I’ve dreamed I run my fingers through them – true!
If sleep’s The Great Restorer, my hair may grow back, I guess -
If I should dose with doze, day and night through.
I find no fright hair-raising now - that cliché has worn thin;
Too scant my pelage to substantiate it.
And if I were a Samson, I’d be far too weak to win;
My baldness, Philistines would celebrate it.
I’ve heard our days and hairs too are celestially numbered –
God knows where Heaven keeps each person’s tally!
Is some guardian angel with each follicle’s care cumbered?
I guess I may find out… eventually!
(I realise the repetition at the end of S1L4. Would
"I find the need for combing it is small."
be better? or sound less natural?)
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