My locks are getting long
Well those that still belong
That haven’t fallen out
If only more would sprout
I’m sat here in the barbers
Between two youths in their Parkers
Flicking through pages of the Sun
Glancing at page three just for fun
“Whose next” she calls unenthusiastically
Glancing at each other almost apologetically
“I think it’s me?”I meekly call
Questioning whether it’s me at all
No one challenges my place in the queue
I’m told to sit in the middle pew
“What’s it going to be today?”
“Do your best” is all I can say
Short at the sides
On the top you decide
Soon she is busily buzzing
Quite efficient simply no fussing
Politely she asks “How are you dear?”
“Have you been on your holiday this year?”
Followed by “are you ready for Christmas?”
I ask enquiringly “how is business?”
“Very good” she replied smiling
Busily sorting out the styling
Finally she finished with the clippers
Some deft work with her little scissors
“How’s that for you sir?”
“Very good” I do concur
To be fair it’s far far too late
To put hair back upon my pate
So whether I like it or not
This is definitely what I’ve got
To suffer for the next 6 weeks or so
Until back to the barbers I will have to go!